


Johnlock Advent 2018

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bed-Wetting, Blow Jobs, Christmas Fluff, Doctor/Patient Roleplay, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Advent 2018, Kissing, Light Bondage, Light Dom Sherlock, Light Dom/sub, Light Sub John, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Nightmares, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD Sherlock, Parentlock, Past Torture, Prostate Massage, Prostate Orgasm, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Victorian Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 47,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Some of you may remember the2017 Johnlock Advent. It was a collaboration between @honeybeelullaby, @chained-to-the-mirror, and myself. @honeybeelullaby provided the wonderful prompts, @chained-to-the-mirror drew pictures based on those, and I wrote a ficlet for each one. It was a real blessing for all three of us then, so… IT’S BACK!!Starting today (the 1st of December) and all the way up to the 25th, the chapter of a fic and accompanying drawing will be posted here (and on my tumblr).  It’s so great, and we are all very excited. I hope you are as well ♥I hope many of you will follow along! Love is in the holiday air! ♥♥♥





	1. Day 1- Looking at Last Year’s Photos

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **Day 1- Looking at Last Year’s Photos**

**** It had been one of those weeks (months really) for John, the sort where all he seemed to have energy for after his shifts at the surgery was quick hello kisses, a hurried bite to eat, and then two sentences into the pocket spy novel he’d been trying to get through for weeks, and he would be sound asleep in his chair.

He’d been gently nudged awake and led blearily to bed in the wee hours, more times than he could count lately, so on this Saturday it feels particularly nice to have absolutely nothing to do. 

Sherlock is up to his nose in some new experiment, Rosie is off with Harry at a Christmas Carnival in the park, and Mrs. Hudson is out of town on some impromptu getaway with an old friend.

The flat is quiet, save for the hum of traffic outside, and the occasional clink of microscope slides or clank of a scalpel against a surgical tray, coming from the kitchen.

John picks up his book, and tries to read.Gives up on it after ten minutes of simply staring at the pages.Truth is, it’s more than exhaustion.He’s restless, itching for something, anything to happen.He’s _bored_ , he suddenly realises.Best not to let Sherlock in on that little secret.He’ll never hear the end of it.

There is the scrape of wood on linoleum, the soft pad of Sherlock’s feet behind him, and then a large, warm hand on his shoulder, and something square and heavy being dropped in his lap.He jumps and stares down at the paper envelope, before craning his head around to look up at Sherlock in question.

Sherlock nods his head toward John’s lap.“You’re bored.Thought you might like a look.Mommy wanted prints of the photos from last Christmas.You know I never take photos.I printed off ones from your phone.Hope you don’t mind.”

John frowns.“When did you get ahold of my phone long enough to…?”

Sherlock shrugs.“I just airdropped them all to mine while you were in the shower Thursday.You know, masturbation day.You always take an extra ten minutes.”

John just sighs and rolls his eyes, and then stares back down at the small packet in his lap.Last Christmas seems a lifetime ago and like yesterday, all at once.He pokes a finger tentatively under the flap and prises it open, pulls out the small pile of prints. 

The first one is the photo of him and Sherlock at Mrs. Hudson’s Christmas do, both of them wearing their Christmas jumpers.There is another copy, framed, that was tucked away with the Christmas decorations last year, and will likely be pulled out again in a few days.It was the start of everything new, and mad, and wonderful in John’s life.It was the marker of the new beginning which had propelled them both into—well, whatever this is that they share now.A flat, a family, a home.

Sherlock’s hands slide from his shoulders over his chest, and he feels his chin come to rest on the top of his head.“Don’t look at that one.I only printed it to prove to Mommy that I wore her ridiculous jumper.”

“Kind of like this one.Reminds me of—well, everything that happened last Christmas.”

Sherlock hums, and reaches down to remove the photo from the pile in John’s hand and place it on the arm of the chair.The next photo is a picture of John leaning over a cardboard box of fairy lights in the lounge.Definitely not one that he took, and since it’s essentially nothing but a photo of his denim clad arse, not something that should be going to Mrs. Holmes either.

He snatches it up, before Sherlock can.“You’re not sending this to your mother!”

“Why not?Why shouldn’t she should know the sort of man that chooses to live with me.”Sherlock is pouting now.

John is still floored by these little, unexpected compliments, so guileless and sincere, that drop from Sherlock’s lips when he’s least expecting them.The fact that Sherlock is pleased and proud to be with him is still a surprise—every, single time.

“No.”He takes the photo, and hands it over his head.“You can keep it, if you like, though.Imagine you’ll get more use from it than she will.” 

He can practically feel Sherlock blushing.He grins and stares down at the next one: their lounge, all kitted out for Christmas.Nice.He adds it to the pile of photos that can reasonably make their way to the Holmeses. 

There are a couple more like that, and then one of Rosie dressed up in the little, red, velvet dress that Mrs. Hudson had gifted her.“Aww, Ro.Look how small she was.”

“Yes, she’s grown quite tall this year.”

The next is one John had taken and then forgotten all about, Sherlock sitting in his chair, reading, for the millionth time, the Christmas letter John had written him.He didn’t know John had taken it, and he looks impossibly young, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

John rubs a thumb over the surface of the print.“Like this one.Forgot I took it.”

“I like the way you see me.”

John looks up.“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods, staring down at the photo in his hand.“You have a gift that way.”

John snorts without thinking.“I think it’s you, with the gift.I’m pants at seeing people.Maybe, especially you.”

Sherlock shakes his head, tears his eyes away from the photo to look down at him.“No.”He looks at John in that way he has, the intense and disarming way that still takes John’s breath away, even after all this time.“Not at all.” 

He dips down, and presses his lips to the corner of John’s mouth, breathes against him, and John reaches up to slide a hand round the back of his neck, tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, and kiss back, soft and full, but still mostly chaste, the way Sherlock likes when its the middle of the day, and he’s up to his elbows in an experiment.

When he finally pulls away, Sherlock’s eyes are closed.

“You need to get back to that?”John whispers.

“Mmm?”Sherlock’s eyes slide open, and he blinks down at him.

“Whatever it is you’re doing at the kitchen table.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide.“Damn!”

John chuckles as Sherlock bolts for the kitchen table, and then growls with frustration.“ _Stupid, stupid…_ ”Muttered under his breath.

“Sorry.”John offers.

“My fault.Not yours.”

John pushes up out of his chair and winces a little at the stiffness in his shoulder.He stops at the entry to the kitchen and leans against the jamb.“Is it salvageable?”

“What?”Sherlock snaps with a scowl, and then looks up and catches a glimpse of John leaning louche against the wall, eyebrow raised.“Oh.Yes.Possibly.”

“Good.Listen, you want to go out tonight?”

“Out?”

“For supper.Angelo’s, maybe?It’s been awhile.

“Ro’s likely to be in high dudgeon because she has to go without us twice in one day, but that’ll be the minder’s problem.Feel like I’ve not really been around much, and even when I am, I’m asleep soon as I get home.Thought it might be nice.A date, you know.Start the holiday season off properly.”

Sherlock is switching out the slide in his microscope.“Is this going to be another year of you trying desperately to work up some holiday spirit, and then getting angry at yourself, when you can’t?Because you know I don’t care about things like that, and stipulating a particular time of year as the primary font of love and good cheer seems rather ridiculous.You really…”

“That a ‘yes’, then?”

Sherlock blinks into his microscope, and then looks up.“Of course, yes.”

John grins.“Good.Might dress up for you a bit.What do you think about that?”

Sherlock’s face does the thing John loves, the slight twist to the corner of the mouth, the wrinkle between the eyes, that disappears into a disbelieving softness.It makes him look young, and besotted, and all the things that John never thought to see on the face of a man looking back at him. 

“Excellent idea.I’ll be sure to put in equal effort.” 

And then his eyes are flitting away, back to his experiments, and John is pushing away from the wall, a grin on his face to match the one still ghosting across Sherlock’s lips.

It’s been awhile.Too long.

This could be fun.


	2. Day 2 - Walking Home Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 2 - Walking Home Drunk**

“Ah, and how are my two favourite men, this evening?!”Angelo slaps Sherlock on the back and grins down at them both.“Hungry?”

“Always.”Sherlock smiles back with the smile that he reserves exclusively for effusive, grateful ex-clients.

“Always _lately_ , anyway, uh.”Angelo winks.“Dr. Watson here keeps you busy.”

John wants to object, to tell Angelo that it’s rather Sherlock that keeps him occupied enough that he doesn’t run mad, but he holds his tongue, because Sherlock is looking across the table at him, in just _that_ way, and nodding indulgently to Angelo, ordering them steaming plates of family-style pasta to share, and what he can only assume will be an excellent bottle of wine.

When Angelo finally heads back to the kitchen with a wink and another slap to Sherlock’s back, and they are alone again, Sherlock’s foot slides up against John’s under the table, and John smiles and rubs his shoe against Sherlock’s.“Was it a good idea, this?”

Sherlock nods.“You look exceptional.”

And John wonders how it is that this tiny drop of praise from Sherlock’s lips can make him blush like a callow school boy.Every time.Every time.Like he’s never had a kind word in his life, and Sherlock’s small crumbs light up something hungry and desperate inside. 

He thinks he should worry about that.He does sometimes.But then there are other times, like tonight, when he looks across the table at warm candlelight hitting alabaster skin, bouncing off inky curls, and reflecting fire in iceberg-blue eyes, and pushes all that worry to the back of his head, because he wants this, more than he has words to describe. 

He wants Sherlock Holmes.He wants their homely, shared flat, and their companionship, and the warm body next to his in bed at night.He wants the banter and bickering.He wants the helping hand with Rosie when he feels at his wits end, and he wants the large, warm hand sliding knowingly, comfortingly down the length of his spine on his bad days.Mostly he wants so very, very much to believe that he will always have it, that it isn’t some fleeting dream, that it isn’t one of those joys, like so many others in his life, that are gone in a blink, leaving him broken, and raw, and alone.

The toe of Sherlock’s shoe rubs against his ankle.The wine and some bread has arrived.Sherlock is filling his glass, and buttering some bread, and sliding it in front of him, and then filling his own glass in turn, before settling back in his chair.

“We may have a case.”

“Oh?”John feels his mood lift a little.

“Mmm…A private one.A very old family estate belonging to an even older family.A series of murders.Sounds ridiculous, very Agatha Christie.Most likely it’s only a five, but it might be a bit of fun for the holidays.Could involve travel though.”

“As long as we’re here for Ro Christmas morning, I can’t see the harm in that.When would we have to go?”

“Not sure.I’m still working out the details.”

“Okay.Well, just let me know.Don’t mind skiving off at the surgery a few days.”

Sherlock takes a sip of wine.He’s giving him the look that means he wishes John would just quit the surgery altogether—an all too familiar look, of late.But silly as it seems, the surgery job is a difficult thing for John to give up.It’s a matter of pride, almost, knowing that he can provide for him and Rosie, that he’s not burdening Sherlock with that, at least.

“Good.You know your help is invaluable to me.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitch up in spite of himself.“So you say.”

“And so you should know by now.”Sherlock’s tone is firm and fond, and it has John reaching for the bottle of wine and refilling his glass. 

He moves to do the same for Sherlock, but then realises his glass is still full.He sets the bottle down, and takes another sip from his own glass.“Well, I’ll come.Said I would.Sounds intriguing.”

“More distracting, I imagine, but it’s something to do.The dearth of criminal activity lately is starting to get wearing.”

John chuckles, and nods in acknowledgement to their young waiter, as he arrives with their salad and tray of lasagna, motioning to him that he will dish out their food.The boy nods back and excuses himself.

John is sure to give Sherlock an extra large portion.He’s been off his food again lately, distracted with god knows what, but John’s had to nudge him out of one of his sofa-bound, mind palace excursions more times than he can count the last few months.He clearly has something on his mind, something huge, and as usual it seems like something he has no inclination of letting John in on.

“Mind you eat that.”John jerks his chin in the direction of Sherlock’s plate.“All of it.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but digs in anyway.

They both tuck in, and there are their usual intermittent periods of comfortable silence, punctuated by easy conversation about everything and nothing.It’s the sort of relaxed, enjoyable evening they haven’t shared in awhile, and John is grateful he'd found the courage to ask.

It’s been nearly a year since they came back together, since Sherlock invited him home and they started feeling out a life together again.It’s been nearly a year, but somehow it still all feels so new.Some things feel old and familiar, like their bickering over body parts in the crisper, and who will get the milk, and Sherlock infringing on John’s personal space, and John grumping passive-aggressively when Sherlock does something exceptionally _Sherlock._

But there are new things, too.There are the occasional, halting attempts at the sorts of deep conversations John imagines one is meant to have in a serious, committed relationship, the sort where you talk about feelings, and misunderstandings, and how to make things work better than they have.There are shared therapy sessions, and a shared bed, shared baths, and shared childcare responsibilities.And sometimes, on rare occasions, when one or the other of them has been lost and floundering, or just particularly wound up, there have been shared touches, kisses, whispers in the dark. 

They’ve made love a handful of times the last year, each time as revelatory and breathtaking as the last, but it’s not something either of them seems ravenous for regularly.Perhaps it’s their age.Perhaps it’s their temperaments.Perhaps it’s the pace and tone of their lives—two madmen battling their own demons in a cramped little flat, with a toddler, and a landlady who used to help run a drug cartel, and a long stream of clients constantly barraging them with their tales of murder, adultery, theft and betrayal.John doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.It’s good when it happens, and he’s content.

He is.He is content.But sometimes…Sometimes he still worries that it will all fall apart, because he knows he doesn’t deserve it, could never deserve it, and sometimes it all seems too good to be true.There is that constant spectre of the other shoe dropping.

“John…?”

John blinks down at a half empty plate of tiramisu, and the empty bottle of wine beside it, and then looks up at Sherlock, smiling fondly at him. 

“Are you alright?”

His head is swimming, he realises.“Mmm.Might have had too much wine.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and he nods.“Let’s go home.”

Somehow they get out on the street, and they are halfway down it, when John realises that Sherlock is propping him up, arm around his back, body pressed steady and warm against his side.And John’s head feels too heavy for his own shoulders, so he rests it agains Sherlock’s arm, and doesn’t care that people are staring, doesn’t care that they might talk when he lifts his lead-weight arm to wrap around Sherlock’s back and drape over his hip. 

He feels giddy and oddly emotional.

He weaves toward the kerb, a little, and Sherlock’s grip around his waist tightens with a chuckle.“Old man,” he murmurs fondly, and John bumps his hip against Sherlock’s in protest, but doesn’t mind, not really.

Somehow they walk the block and a half back to their flat without mishap, and John is so grateful that he presses Sherlock up against the door and kisses him soundly before they go in. 

Someone across the street whistles loudly, and John feels his cheeks heat, but Sherlock smells of expensive cologne, and his mouth tastes of wine and tiramisu, and his coat hangs open so that John can feel the hot, angular, length of his body pressing against his in the cold night air.

It would make him hard if he was sober, but as it is, it just makes him cry.

Sherlock notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t say anything, only rubs a hand down the length of John’s spine, and pulls him against his chest for a moment, before turning to unlock the door.

It’s Sherlock who pays the minder, and goes out to hail her a cab.And it’s Sherlock who goes up to check on Rosie, and make sure she’s still sleeping, before doing the round of the flat, shutting everything up for the night, and then slipping into bed and pulling John into his arms.

“Tonight was good.We should do it again.Not wait so long for the next time.”

“Yeah?”John whispers wetly into his neck.

“Mmm.Perhaps we’ve been too busy, lately.”

John huffs.“Didn’t think there was any such thing with you.”

He feels Sherlock smile.“Yes, well…”

John smears his mouth against the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock tilts his chin over, and down, and presses his lips against John’s forehead.“You’re too drunk for that.”

“Want it.”

“I’m sure.It has been awhile.When you’re sober.”

“When’d you get so sensible?”

“I’ve always been the sensible one.”

John laughs outright at that, reaches out and pulls Sherlock in against his body.“You’re mad.”

“Most probably.”Sherlock is smiling down at him in the half-dark.“I love you,” he murmurs.

And John feels his eyes grow wet all over again.“Love you, too.”


	3. Day 3 - A Hot Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 3- A Hot Bath**
> 
> **Author's Note:** Please note the added tags for this chapter. I want to make very clear that this is predominantly a fluffy, happy story, but in this chapter we see that though our boys love each other very much, they still have their struggles. 
> 
> I think that's been clear with John, because this story is from his point of view, but in this chapter we see a little of what is going on with Sherlock. This is probably the heaviest chapter in the whole story, and Sherlock's nightmares happen at the beginning, so we are on to the comfort side of the hurt/comfort by they halfway point of the chapter.
> 
>  **NOTE ADDED TAGS:** #PTSD Sherlock, #Nightmares, #Bed-Wetting, #Past Torture, #Hurt/Comfort

John wakes in a cold sweat, to a pounding head, and a mouth as dry as sandpaper.It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to realise that he is hung over in London, in their flat, in their bed, not in Afghanistan, lying on scorching sands, the cries of the other men in his outfit echoing in alarm and terror around him.Because something woke him, some sound that is not a part of his usual domestic tableau.

And there it is again, a whimper, a muffled shout.

_Sherlock._

John sits up, heart racing, head spinning, ready to race to his assistance, only to realise that Sherlock is there, beside him in the bed, curled tight, trembling. 

Ah…The dreams then.

It had been something John had not been anticipating when he first came home.Probably should have been—if he’d been paying attention to the things that mattered when Sherlock had risen from the dead, rather than his own rage and fear.But ten weeks after he had started sharing Sherlock’s bed he had awakened to Sherlock flailing in the dark, crashing to the floor and crawling under the bed.

John had years enough of his own ptsd-induced nightmares to know what not to do.He’d got out of bed, sat some distance away, and spoken Sherlock’s name, loud but calm, until Sherlock had jolted awake, banging his head on the bottom of the bed.He seemed unsurprised to find himself there, which led John to believe that this was a regular occurrence.

They hadn’t talked about it afterwards.They’ve never talked about it since.John figures it’s the least he can do after everything.That night, he had simply beckoned Sherlock back to bed, pulled him close, and stayed spooned around him until he fell back asleep.

Tonight will be no different.

He sits all the way up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and rubs a hand wearily over his face, willing his stomach to settle.“Sherlock.”He glances over his shoulder.Sherlock is still curled into the foetal position.“Sherlock, wake up.Come on, now.Wake up.”

Sherlock continues to mutter and tremble, and John considers, for a wild, stupid moment, actually trying to shake him awake.It’s harder than he cares to admit having to listen to Sherlock suffer this way, and he wonders if Sherlock used to feel the same when he heard him dreaming, if that is why he would wake from his night terrors, more nights than not, to the soft strains of violin music floating up through the floorboards, all those years ago.

“Sherlock, wake up.Come on.”A little louder this time, and that seems to do it.Sherlock jerks awake, floundering in the sheets, flailing as though warding off blows.

“Hey, hey, hey.You’re safe.You’re here at the flat with me.You’re in London.It’s okay.”

John waits for him to still before he leans over and places a hand on his shoulder.“It’s okay.”

He hears Sherlock huff, and then he jumps up, bolts from the bed and heads for the loo.John sighs, his head pounding, and flicks on the lamp beside his bed.He dispenses two Nurofen from the bottle on his bedside table, washes them down with the bottled water beside them, and then stands up and stretches.

That’s when he sees the wet patch on Sherlock’s side of the bed.More than sweat. 

It’s never happened before.He makes a mental note to maybe try to broach the subject of talking about it, whatever it is, in therapy, before stripping the sheets and shuffling into the loo to stuff them into the washer.

Sherlock is curled up on the tile floor, naked, his face pressed to the side of the toilet bowl, soiled pants in a tiny, sad heap in the nearby sink.John picks them up, tosses them into the washer with the sheets and then turns it on.

“My head’s killing me.You want to share a bath?”

Sherlock blinks up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes red-rimmed, burning with shame and gratitude all at once.

John jerks his head in acknowledgement.“Mind if I put that lavender stuff in?”

Sherlock just shakes his head.

“Okay.” 

John starts the water running, pours in a cup of bath salts and a couple of capfuls of bubble bath, and then goes into the bedroom, gathers up his fleece dressing gown from the chair in the corner, and goes back into the loo to drape it over Sherlock’s shoulders.“You nauseous?You want some water?”

Sherlock shakes his head again.

“Go on and get in, then.It’s not running too hot.”

“Alright.”It’s barely a whisper.Sherlock winces as he pulls himself up off the cold tile, John’s dressing gown falling gracefully to the floor, and then hurries over to the tub to tentatively dip a toe in.Evidently finding it to his liking, he sinks down beneath the swiftly mounting layer of froth with a shiver and a sigh.

John goes back into the bedroom with a towel for the mattress, and then into the kitchen for some baking soda, vinegar, and water.He’s just finishing up when he hears the water in the loo shut off.

When he steps back into the now steamy room Sherlock blinks up at him.“Sorry.”

“Scoot up,” John orders, and Sherlock does, giving him room to get into the tub behind him.“Come here.”And Sherlock slides back into the V of John’s legs, lets John wrap his arms around him and pull him back against his chest.

“You okay?”John murmurs into his hair.

And Sherlock nods even though John can feel his breath hitch, and then hitch again.

“You’re okay.”John buries his nose in his curls, and whispers against his scalp.“I’ve got you.You’re okay.”

They sit like that, Sherlock’s body cradled by John’s, John’s fingers carding slow trails through his hair, his breath slowly guiding Sherlock’s back into a more regular rhythm, until the water starts to cool, and every, single one of Sherlock’s muscles has gone to jelly.

“Might go back to bed upstairs for awhile,” John finally offers.“You want to come with?”

Sherlock nods against his chest.

“Good.It’s always so fucking cold up there.Probably fine in Ro’s nursery, but that bed in the hall…Freezing.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispers again, and John sighs.

“Heard you the first dozen times.Stop it now, okay.”

Sherlock nods, and then sits forward, pulling away from his body, back still to him.“I never meant for you to have to deal with this.”

“And I never meant for you to have to deal with my nonsense, either, but here we are.”

Sherlock’s head drops, and John reaches out to lay a hand against the web of white scar-tissue tattooing his back like jagged lace.“Told you months ago I’m all in.This is a part of it.It is what it is.I don’t mind.Christ knows you’ve done the same for me more times than not.”

“Don’t tell Mycroft.”He sounds unbearably small, so unlike the Sherlock John usually sees.

John frowns, traces his thumb over the nub of one of Sherlock’s vertebra.“Why would I tell your brother?”

Sherlock just shrugs.

“Hey…Hey.Look at me, okay.”Sherlock glances over his shoulder, and John lifts a brow.“What happens in that bedroom, between us, that’s ours.It’s no one else’s business.”

Sherlock looks away.“He’ll think I’m slipping.He’ll have me admitted again.Precautionary action.”

“Over my dead body.”

He feels Sherlock huff.When he cranes his head around, to look at John over one, wet shoulder, his eyes are full, but there’s a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

John smiles back.“We should get out.You’ll catch your death, and I need to drink some more water.Christ, you have got to stop me when I start drinking that much.”

“I’ll remind you, you said that.”

“You bloody well better.”

Sherlock is smiling in earnest now.

“Come on then.Bed.”John hoists himself out of the tub, surprised his shoulder doesn’t give its usual twinge, and then reaches out a hand to help Sherlock out as well. 

Once out of the tub, Sherlock stands naked and dripping, and stares down at him for a long time.“I’m lost without you.”

It’s painfully honest, incredibly vulnerable.It takes John’s breath away, and it helps him make a decision he’s been mulling over on some level or another, for months, whether he’s realised it or not.He tucks the thought away to consider later, when he is more awake and less hung over. 

He reaches out and traces a finger over Sherlock’s hip, watches it follow the trail left by a single drop of water migrating over his skin.“Well then, it’s a good thing you won’t ever need to be without me, isn’t it.”

“John…”

He looks up, and meets Sherlock’s hopeful, hungry, anxious eyes, and smiles.“You know I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”

Sherlock just stares, and John shakes his head.“You’re shattered.Bed, okay.”

And so Sherlock lets himself be led to the small, single bed pushed up against the wall in the hall outside Rosie’s nursery, lets John somehow crowd the two of them into the small space, enfolded, held.John breathes into damp curls, and feels his eyes go heavy.

“ _thank you…_ ”So quiet he almost misses it.

John holds on a little tighter.


	4. Day 4 - Breakfast in Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 4- Breakfast in Bed**

It takes John a long time to decide to get out of bed.It’s cramped, and hot, and his shoulder is absolutely killing him, but Sherlock has turned in his sleep at some point, and his legs are tangled with John’s, and his face mashed against his chest, cheeks flushed pink with warmth, hair pushed up against the pillow and a riot on one side.He looks impossibly young, with his features lax in sleep, one arm draped over John’s waist, and the other tucked up under his chin, and John wants to stay, to hold him close and kiss him.

His head hurts considerably less than it had a few hours prior.His mouth still feels too dry, and his kidney’s are offering up twinging protests of their own, but still he thinks he might be up for getting up and making the messy miracle of a man in his arms some breakfast. 

Of course, disengaging himself might be a bit…

Well, there’s nothing for it.If he waits too long, Rosie will wake up, and then everyone will be up, and their day will begin whether they like it or not.He tries to capture these little moments of intimacy when and where he can.

He makes a tentative attempt at untangling himself from the web of Sherlock’s gangly limbs but he’s only made middling progress, when Sherlock grunts in objection and pulls him back in.

“Gotta use the loo.”

“Mmff…”

“Let go, Idiot.”John smiles against Sherlock’s neck, and slides his lips up close to his ear.“Let me out, and go back to sleep.I’ll bring you a surprise.”

“Mm?”

“You have to let go to find out.”

“Fffine…”He’s not awake, not really, but he loosens his hold enough that John can slip from the small bed, and hurry downstairs in search of his dressing gown.It’s still where Sherlock had left it, in a heap on the floor of the toilet. 

He shrugs into it, moves the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and goes to check on the mattress.It’s drying out nicely, and so he adds some more baking soda and makes a note to vacuum it well later.

It’s early, still dark as he pads back into the kitchen, turns on the light over the cooker, and then fills the kettle.Just a quick little something.Hot tea, and toast.He’ll put sugar and cinnamon on it for Sherlock, whose sweet tooth shows no sign of abating.

The traffic outside is a whisper.There is no sound from Mrs. Hudson’s flat.The baby monitor in the bedroom had been silent moments earlier.There’s time.There’s time to take his time, to wake Sherlock slowly, to maybe test the waters for a little of what Sherlock had rebuffed the night before, declaring John too drunk.

He puts the toast down, and the tea on to brew, downs two glasses of water, and then goes to take a piss.When he gets back the tea is ready, and so is the toast.He sets it all on a tray and makes his way back upstairs as quietly as he can.

Sherlock is predictably fast asleep, flat on his back, limbs akimbo, taking up the whole bed, sheets thrown back, bare chest flushed and beautiful.John licks his lips, and takes a moment to just stand and appreciate the view.Breathtaking.Though he’d never tell Sherlock that, not in so many words anyway.Might go to his head.But he is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen, and the years have been kind in ways they’ve not been to John.

Sherlock is still beautiful in the way young men are, and John almost feels guilty at times, like some old letch, when he stands and stares at the way the sunlight worships and caresses Sherlock’s skin, the way his maturity has only served to soften out his angles and hard edges, the way his cheeks are still pink, and his eyes still sparkle.

He shakes his head, and sets the tray down on the floor beside the bed before sitting down on the edge of the mattress, and carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, fisting them, giving the gentlest of tugs.“Brought food.”

Sherlock groans.“Go away…”

John grins.“Might do if you keep up like that.Could just sit downstairs and eat the cinnamon toast and tea all by myself.”

Sherlock stretches out dramatically and then curls tight into a little ball, but one eye cracks open.“Toast?”

“Warm, buttery, cinnamon-sugar toast.”

Sherlock unfurls again and props himself up on one elbow.“Why?”

John just shrugs.“Why not?”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to the mattress.“You don’t have to do this.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“No, I mean—if this is because of last night, I’m fine, John.I don’t need to be coddled.”

“Mm, guess I will be eating the toast myself then.Pity.I used Demerara sugar.”

John reaches down and lifts the tray onto the bed, and the plate onto his lap.He’s just about to take a bite when Sherlock lets out a loud sigh.John cocks a brow, toast still hovering near his lips.“Problem?”

“Don’t be stupid.”Sherlock sounds all of twelve.“Of course I want it.”He holds out a hand, and John grins, placing the slice on his palm.Sherlock takes a delicate nibble, and frowns.“You said it was warm.”

“Was warm, until you decided to be a cock.Don’t be such an arse next time, yeah.Here.Have your tea.it’s still plenty hot.”

“Only if you take off that ridiculous dressing gown and crawl back in here.”

“Oh?You have ideas?”

“Possibly.”Sherlock takes another bite of toast.

John stands up and lets the dressing gown drop, is mildly amused as Sherlock frowns at the boxers he’s wearing beneath.He crawls back under the covers and sits with his back pressed against the cold wall.Sherlock hands him a cup of tea.

“Ta.”He takes a sip.“You know, I wasn’t so pissed last night that I don’t remember you rebuffing my advances.”

Sherlock snorts and then takes another bite of toast and washes it down with a sip of tea.“You were drunk.I was being considerate.”

“Right.”

“Are you saying you wish I’d not?”

“Maybe.”

“And run the risk of you not remembering it?”

John huffs.“Wasn’t that pissed.”

“Mmm.”

“Not drunk now, though, am I?”John waggles a brow and Sherlock rolls his eyes, before setting his teacup down on the floor.

“Fair point.”His eyes are everywhere, reading John in that way he has that makes him feel naked even under three layers of clothes, and he’s wearing considerably less right now.“It has been too long.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

“Wasn’t sure you missed it, really.”

Sherlock’s brow knots.

John shrugs.“Not like that.Just, I mean…”He takes a deep breath and lets it out.“I’m never sure if it’s something you want, or whether you just—I don’t know—indulge me.”

Sherlock’s pupils blow wide, even as his brow wrinkles further.“Come here.”It’s tender and fond, but there’s something of an order about it, and it makes John shiver, makes him jump into action before his brain even has time to catch up.

Sherlock takes the cup of tea from his hand, sets it on the floor, and then pulls him back down onto the bed, onto his body, into his arms.His body is warm and pliant.John can breathe again.


	5. Day 5 - Nobody's Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 5- Nobody's Like You**
> 
>   
> **Author's Note:** Please heed the new tags listed below. This chapter is **NSFW**.  
>  **New Tags for this Chapter:** #Hand Jobs, #Kissing, #Finger Sucking

Sherlock’s fingers toy with the short hairs at his temple.“What is this?”

John just shakes his head.

“John, if I’ve done something to make you feel that anything you have on offer is unwanted, I…”

“Haven’t.”John mumbles, feeling stupid for being so—so—whatever it is that’s wrong with him this morning.

“Then, what…?”

“Don’t know.”

“Mm.”And just like that Sherlock accepts it.Long, warm fingers trace up and down the length of John’s spine.“I do need you.”

“Don’t know why.”

“Because you are an anchor, and a mystery that can never be fully solved, and you focus me, hold me together when everything else in life seems to be tearing me apart.”

John props himself up on his elbows and stares down at Sherlock, who is looking back up at him with a fond, soft smile.“Definitely mad.”

“Because I find you exceptional?”

“Mm.”

Sherlock just shakes his head.“Well, those who speak the truth are often seen as mad at first.”

And John has no argument for that, so he kisses Sherlock instead—lazy, deep and sweet.

It’s been a long while since they’ve kissed like this, taken their time with it, tasted, explored, let themselves sink into and get lost.When they finally come up for air, John has no idea how much time has passed, but he is awed and grateful that Rosie still seems to be fast asleep in the next room, and he is reminded all over again, why the first time they made love he had cried with regret, off-and-on for days, because though he had fantasied about it now and again, he never could have imagined what it would be like to hold Sherlock in his arms, to share the things they share, to love and be loved in return. 

And now he’s going to ruin it all, but he just can’t seem to help himself this morning…

“You’re gorgeous.”

The smile Sherlock graces him with is small, and shy.“So I’ve been told.By you.More times than I can count.”

“Just the truth.You could have anyone, you know.You could have anyone at all, and yet here you are in bed with a tired, old…”

Sherlock cradles John’s face, lifts his thumb to John’s lips, traces over them, presses gently against the seam, until John takes him in, just the tip, and slides his tongue over the pad of Sherlock’s finger with a sigh of relief through his nose.

“Nobody’s like you, John.No one.Ergo, there is no one else I want.You fit me like a glove.”

John sucks Sherlock thumb deeper, watches his eyes flutter shut.The hum he makes at the back of his throat lights John up like a tree at Christmas.

“Mad…” he whispers, runs his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s thumb, and then lets it pop from between his lips before kissing him again.

The energy between them has changed.This kiss is different, more heated, and though it sometimes takes them a little time to warm up, that is not the case this morning, it seems.They are both already hard, moving against one another, like the the crash of morning waves against the shore.Sherlock pants into his mouth, and John moans, and they almost fall out of the tiny bed they are sharing twice.

Sherlock is fumbling between their bodies, at the front of John’s pyjamas, when they hear the first stirrings of life emanating from Rosie’s nursery, just the other side of the wall.

“Fuck.” John whispers breathless and aching.

But then Sherlock is shooting out of bed, grabbing his hand, and practically dragging him back downstairs, where they slam the door to their bedroom, and Sherlock practically yanks the drawer to the nightstand onto the floor in a frantic search for lube.Then he is stripping them both, and pushing John down onto the dry side of the bed, slicking himself up, and taking them both in hand.

They moan in unison as his warm fingers wrap around their throbbing cocks.

It’s frantic, and desperate, and hotter than anything John can recall, the way Sherlock wanks and jerks them both, fast and hard, desperate to get them off before Rosie wakes up fully and demands attention.John can hear her on the baby monitor beside the bed.He reaches behind himself in an attempt to shut it off and just ends up knocking it on the floor.

“Leave it.”Sherlock growls, and picks up the speed between their bodies.John thinks he might see stars.

“God, I’m gonna…”

“Good.”

Sherlock waits for him, waits for John’s toes to curl, for his body to go tense and taut, and balls to draw up.He waits for John’s shout of release, before pumping a few more times, and coming himself, all over John’s belly.

Still heady, John giggles with the ridiculous, gorgeous, full body release of it all.He’s bloody right.Sherlock is mad, but he’s his madman, and doesn’t that make all the difference.

It takes them a moment to recover, to realise they’ve now soiled John’s side of the bed as well as Sherlock’s.Sherlock looks down at the mess between them, and then back up at John, a look of mild guilt written across his features.John just kisses him.

“Needed a new mattress anyway,” he grins.

“Mmm, true.”

Rosie is starting to make more of a fuss now that her usual morning chatter hasn’t produced a single member of the household.

John rolls onto his back and throws an arm over his head.“Christ, you can still give me a workout.”

“I should hope so.We’re not pensioners yet, John.”

John giggles again, and Sherlock chuckles along.“Stay here.”Sherlock crawls over the many messes, and disappears into the loo, returning in a moment with a warm, wet flannel.He hands it to John, who cleans up and then sits up.

“I’ll go get Rosie.”Sherlock offers.

“Okay.I’ll start breakfast.”John cranes his head over his shoulder.“Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“I love you, you know.”

Sherlock smiles.“I know.I love you, too.”


	6. Day 6 - Secretly Shopping for Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Day 6 - Secretly Shopping for Each Other**

“Going out.”

“Mmm?”Sherlock glances up from the floor, where he is sitting cross legged helping Rosie build a morgue out of Duplo bricks. 

“Out.”John repeats.“Going out.We need milk, and bread.And I thought I might do a bit of Christmas shopping afterwards.You need anything?”

Sherlock slaps his hands on the tops of his thighs and gives them a rub.“Yes.I need to come with you.”

“Shops!”Rosie chimes in.

“Yes, Watson.To the shops.”

John sighs.“Uhh, that does defeat the purpose a bit.”

“What?”

“Besides.Thought you hated the shops.”

“Bored.”Sherlock offers by way of explanation, and looking down at his current activity, John can hardly blame him, he thinks.

“Fine.But if I tell you to go off somewhere so I can get you something, you’d better do it.”

Sherlock grins innocently.“Of course.”

“The shops!”Rosie repeats with joy.

And so they go to the shops.Food will be last, and John is tempted to spend longer in what is sure to be an overly crowded Tesco just out of spite.Because there is no way he is going to go looking for what he had really hoped to buy.Sherlock would be on to him in a second.He’s just going to have to dial back his plans.Perhaps he can find some stocking stuffers for Rosie.

“I’m going to M&S.”

Sherlock sighs long, and loud, like the very thought is an assault on his senses.

“Yeah, well—we can’t all be a posh git.”

“Posh git!”Rosie echos.John stares down at her with a frown, and she giggles.

“Well, I suppose Watson and I can occupy ourselves with food. Would you like a biscuit and hot cocoa?”

“Yes!!!”Rosie claps her hands together like he’s just offered her the world, and so he removes her from her pushchair, takes her hand, and lets her toddle along beside him, leaving John with the pushchair and a foul mood.

He hasn’t gone far when he comes across a display of scarves.Always a safe bet for Sherlock.He fingers the fabric.Mm.Not soft enough. 

When he looks up, to his chagrin, he can see that Sherlock has stopped to study some truly ugly jumpers, something he knows John would never wear, and John suspects he’s doing it on purpose.Sure enough he glances over his shoulder, and when he catches John looking, holds up the offending garment with a grin, and then outright laughs when John scowls in response.

Finally, he retreats to the cafe with Rosie, leaving John alone with his thoughts. 

John would rather be in a small little shop three streets over, at the moment.It’s where he had intended to go before Sherlock had forced himself in on the outing.He supposes it can wait—but not too long.He wants to buy the thing while he’s riding high on this cloud of confidence and Christmas joy, before doubt starts to take hold again.

He sees another scarf, a dark purple, made of some rayon blend that has the weight of wool, but the feel of silk.It’s exceptionally soft.He’ll buy it.Afterwards he moves to the toy department, and finds a few small things for Rosie’s stocking, as well as a doll she has been eyeing, because half the children at her nursery have it already, and he’s been too bloody busy to notice what the newest thing is amongst the toddler set.

By the time he checks out and makes his way back to the cafe, Sherlock and Rosie are already nearly finished with their mid-afternoon treat.He stands a short distance away and watches.

Sherlock being good with her was something he had never expected.They get on like a house on fire, and if he didn’t know better he would say they were both utterly besotted with one another.He’s grateful.It’s made the last year, the transition of leaving one life behind, and reviving another, a great deal easier

At the moment he has no idea what they are talking about, but Sherlock is saying something exceptionally serious, and Rosie is listening intently, and then laughing at short intervals.She finds him hilarious, which is probably her Watson blood coming through, he thinks.

He takes a deep breath, and then goes to join them.

Sherlock looks up as he approaches.“Look Watson, your Daddy comes bearing gifts.A scarf for me, and many lovely secrets for you.”

John sniffs and drops into the nearest chair.“You could at least pretend to be surprised, you know.”

“I know.”Like a sassy child, and dear god, but doesn’t John love him for it.Sometimes he thinks he should worry about how much Sherlock’s smart mouth can turn him on.Not to mention he’s 99.9% sure that Sherlock knows this, and has started to use it almost like some sort of flirtation.

“Can I have it now?”

John reaches out and steals the last of the biscuit off Sherlock’s plate, which elicits a look of shock and hearty objection.John just grins and takes a big bite.“Have what now?”Around a mouthful of biscuit.

Sherlock pouts.“The scarf.”

“No!You’re not having it now.It’s for Christmas, you idiot.Just because you can deduce everything I get you, doesn’t mean you’ve earned the right to it whenever you like.”

“But it’s cold, and mine’s threadbare and itchy.Look.”Sherlock peels his scarf away from his neck, which is indeed red.

“Wasn’t sure you’d stoop so low as to wear something from M&S.”

“Don’t be stupid.You know I don’t care about things like that.”

“I know you’re vain.”John smiles fondly.

Sherlock huffs and pouts some more.

John chuckles.“Fine.Have the bloody scarf.Here.”He reaches in the bag, and pulls out the small box the shop girl had put it in. 

Sherlock snatches it up, and then opens it gingerly, as though it contains something of infinite beauty and value.His eyes widen a little as he peels back the tissue paper.“Violet.I’ve never had a violet one.”

“That okay?”

“Of course.”He pulls it out and runs it through his fingers.“Look Watson.”He rubs the fabric against Rosie’s cheek, since her hands are sticky with icing. 

“Soft.”She says.

“Mmm.Your Daddy knows I like soft things.”

And just like that John feels his eyes bite at the corners, in the middle of a crowded cafe, just because Sherlock has acknowledged that he recognises and appreciates that John notices little things like that.

Sherlock is pulling his old scarf off, and putting the new one on in its stead.It looks fantastic.The dark purple was definitely the right choice.

“Nice.”John whispers.

“Perfect.”Sherlock replies, and gives him one of those looks that makes him feel like there is no one else in the world but the two of them, for just a moment.One of the looks that slows down time, stretches it out, each second, each breath precious.

He feels Sherlock’s foot press up against his under the table.“You see, Watson, your Daddy knows me very well indeed.”

Rosie is reaching out for the scarf.“Pretty.”

“Yes, it is.Very pretty.”And still he’s looking at John.

John wonders if it’s possible to fall in love with someone a little more each day.In past relationships he’d always started off burning hot, and then felt that diminish a little more with each passing day, until the thing he’d thought was love finally guttered and died.But with Sherlock… 

This year has been a surprise.

He’s learned so many things about Sherlock this year, both fascinating and irksome, which given his former track record in relationships, should mean that the shine is starting to wear off, but it’s not, and he doesn’t know quite what to do with that fact.

It’s not just the lust, though that has predictably started to drop off just like it has in all his previous relationships.But there is a thing that remains with Sherlock.Perhaps it’s because they were friends first.Or perhaps it’s because they have already walked such a long and difficult road together.But this year has been moment after moment of John catching little glimpses of a Sherlock he doesn’t think he really knows, and wanting more than anything he can imagine, to have the right and pleasure of getting to know him ( _for as long as they both shall live_ ).

Sherlock smiles, soft and fond, like he can read John’s thoughts, and John pushes them hurriedly from his mind.“Well, should we brave Tesco then?Maybe we’ll get a frozen pizza for supper.What do you think, Ro?”

“PIZZA!”

John smiles, and then shakes his head as he gets to his feet.“Christ I’m a shit father.”He mutters just low enough for Rosie not to hear, but Sherlock does, and John feels his hand at the small of his back as he leans down to clip Rosie into her pushchair. 

“You’re an excellent father.”He says when John straightens up again.

And there it is again, that bite in his eyes.He will NOT cry in the middle of the bloody M&S!He jerks his chin in acknowledgement, and then turns away.“Grab the packages, will you.Got my hands a bit full here.”


	7. Day 7 - Being Ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 7- Being Ridiculous**

It’s Friday, and John is in love.

Ridiculously so.

He woke up that way, and he has no idea why.There’s really no reason why he should be feeling it today more than any other day, but here he is, struggling through rush hour traffic with stars in his eyes and smile on his lips.

The week at the surgery has been long and trying.He’s still been exhausted every night.Rosie’s caught a cold, which probably means that they all will, mostly because Sherlock seems to have zero qualms about germs passing via bodily fluids, and lets her rest on his chest, and wipe her snotty nose all over his shoulder and neck when she’s fussing.

This morning John had wakened early to the site of Rosie and Sherlock in bed beside him; Rosie, sound asleep on Sherlock’s chest—all eighty-one centimetres and one and a half stone of her, snot from her cold crusted under her nose, mingling with saliva to pool in a wet patch on the front of Sherlock’s t-shirt, and one of Sherlock’s large hands draped over her back like a blanket, keeping her safe and warm, and John’s heart had flipped over and twisted tight in his chest.

Sherlock is beautiful when he sleeps.It’s really quite ridiculous.It makes John angry sometimes, how beautiful he looks, mouth lax, a perfect bow, curls flopping over his forehead, neck stretched out long, and bare.This morning had been no exception, and John had fallen head-over-heels, all over again.

A cab ahead cuts him off and then slams on its breaks.“Oh for…Fuck off!” he shouts, and gives the cabbie the two-fingered salute, just for good measure.But, he’s still smiling. 

He doesn’t understand it, what they have.He’s seemed to fall in and out of being ‘in love’ quite regularly the last year, though underneath it all, the fondness, the loyalty, the commitment never wavers.Sherlock is not an easy person to love, and John, he knows, is even harder, but somehow here they are.The hard days can be bloody painful, but the good ones…He grins again, and marks himself down as a fool.

He reaches the car park, turns in, parks the car, and heads down the street to the flat. 

He barely gets a half block when he sees a familiar long-coated figure exit a nearby cafe and head down the pavement just ahead of him, head held aloof, all confidence, the set of his shoulders and length of his stride telegraphing cold indifference.Sherlock—his public persona on full display.

John hurries his pace, and then falls in step beside him.“What’s a posh bloke like you doing in a neighbourhood like this, eh?”

He sees Sherlock’s whole body tense for the briefest of moments, before John’s voice registers as John’s, and then he relaxes again, the corners of his mouth twitching.“Oh, you know, sometimes we posh boys like to slum a bit.”

“In Westminster?!”John can’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

“You started this nonsense.”Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning.He attempts to sober.“What do you suggest, Soldier?Any ideas?”

“Maybe a few.They don’t call me _Three-Continents Watson_ for nothing.”John winks and waggles a brow, and that’s what does it.Sherlock bursts into laughter.And the sound just makes John fall in love all the more.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.Home early, aren’t you?”Sherlock finally manages.

“A miracle given the traffic.Where’s Ro?”

“With Mrs. Hudson.Helping her decorate, apparently.”

“What were you doing at Wenzel’s?”

“I promised Rosie a cupcake with her supper.”

“I see.”

“Mmm.”

“Any in there for me?”

“Of course.Carrot.Your favourite.”

“Well ta.”

They’ve turned onto Baker Street now, and there’s an icy wind blowing.Sherlock pulls his coat closed, and then lifts a gloved hand to his mouth in an attempt to hide a cough.

“You’re getting Rosie’s cold.Guess I’ll be next.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m right.You’ll see.You let her drip all over you.”

“She’s sick, John.She needs extra touch.It’s good for her.All the studies I’ve read say that…”

John nudges him fondly with his shoulder.“Yeah, yeah.Okay.Not faulting you.Just saying…”

They pick up their pace due to the cold, and the warmth 221b’s foyer is welcome respite after the biting wind down Baker Street.John sighs, and rolls his shoulders to stretch out some of the tension, and then turns when he reaches the first step up to their flat, takes the lapels of Sherlock’s coat in hand and pulls him into a slow, deep kiss.

Sherlock’s eyes stay closed for a moment when John finally pulls away, and John smiles at him, even though he can’t see, because he can’t help himself.“Been wanting to do that all day.You smell incredible.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open at that, pupils wide and dark.“Now who’s going to get a cold.”He winks, his fingers seeking out the placket of John’s shirt.“You’ve been in a rare mood the last few days.”He sounds pleased.

“Yeah, well…Maybe I’m just getting into the Christmas spirit a little early.”

“So, I see.”Sherlock’s eyes take in all of his face, every nuance of expression, they drag down the length of his body, and back up again.“Mrs. Hudson can hear our bedroom door shut, if we slam it hard enough, and I know she heard us come in.

“You suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Depends on what you think I’m suggesting, Soldier.”

John smirks.“Seems we’re on the same page.”He steps back and sweeps a hand up the staircase.“Lead the way, Beautiful.”

He sees Sherlock fighting to suppress a smile again, as he feigns a seductive air, and slips past John, letting the back of one hand drag slowly over the front of John’s trousers.

John’s eyes slide shut, his head falling back against the wall with a small thud, before he rallies and hurries after him.


	8. Day 8 - Can't Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 8- Can't Sleep**

“I can’t sleep if I can’t breathe!This is intolerable!!!”Sherlock flops about on the mattress like a beached fish, and John looks up from his book and slides his glasses down his nose to stare over the rims at the stuffy-nosed terror beside him.

“Told you, you were getting ill.”

Sherlock pulls the blankets up under his nose and scowls.“Yes, very good Doctor, you were right!Shall I award you a trophy.”

“Oi, no need for that.”John sets his book and glasses down on the nightstand, rearranges his pillows, lies back, and pats his chest.“You want to come here then?”

“No.”

“Mmm, okay.Suit yourself.”

“I can’t breathe…!”The whinging is reaching a fevered pitch.

“So you’ve said.You can’t have pseudoephedrine, you know that.We have those nasal strips.”

“Fine.”

It’s a full on strop.John should be irritated, but god help him, he’s finding it somewhat cute.He briefly contemplates telling Sherlock this, just to see the reaction he would get, and then thinks better of it.He really does sound congested.

“You want me to get you one?”

Sherlock sighs heavily, stretches out and pops out of the bed, stark naked, to go to the loo and get it himself.

“‘Kay.”John arches a brow and watches his progress, admiring the view, and then feeling a little guilty for doing so, given Sherlock’s condition.

Sherlock comes back, a moment later, wearing the nasal strip, and refusing to look John in the eye.He’s covered in gooseflesh, head-to-toe, and his nipples are tight and peaked.

“Better?”

“Hmm.”

“Come here.You’re cold.”

“I’m sick.Of course I’m cold.”

“You’re traipsing about the flat in the nude.That’s why you’re cold.Thought I’d gone back in time to that first year we were living together, there, for a minute.”

Sherlock sighs and John grins.

“Go put on a bloody t-shirt, at least, and then come here.”

Sherlock huffs indignantly, but he does as he’s told. 

It’s like this when he’s feeling poorly.He becomes more petulant, but more pliant, too.He likes John to look after him, whether he’s willing to admit it or not, and while at first it had irritated John to no end, when he finally saw it for what it was, and then thought back through the entire length of their relationship, he’d been astonished to realise that Sherlock had been trawling for his attention, subtly and not so subtly, for years.He tries not to make him work so hard for it these days.

When Sherlock gets back into bed, he doesn’t make any further pretence at being stand-offish, and instead just crawls right over and curls up on and around John like a demanding cat.“I suppose now you’ll be angry at me for dripping all over you.”

“I’m a doctor.I’m immune to everything.”

“Doubtful.”

“Mmm…”John scratches his fingertips against Sherlock’s scalp, and feels him melt.

“It’s unfair being sick at Christmas.”

“One of the many small injustices of life, Love.”

Sherlock sniffles and blinks up at him.“You haven’t called me that in ages.”

“No?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Yeah well—wasn’t sure you were all that fond of it, or, you know—pet names in general.”

“It’s fine.”

John cards through Sherlock’s hair, and gives a gentle tug.“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Am I meant to have a pet name for you?”

“No.”

“But do you want it?”He sounds anxious.Definitely sick, then. 

John scoots lower down under the covers, and snakes a hand under Sherlock’s waist to pull him closer.“If you want to, then fine.But, I like the way you say my name.”

“Oh?”

“Sort of fond, and…I don’t know.Like you do.”

“John,” Sherlock rumbles, purposefully dropping his voice the way he does when he wants to make John’s toes curl and his blood race.But it sounds considerably less seductive, congested as he is.

John chuckles.“Yeah, like that.But maybe a little less nasal.”

Sherlock huffs against his chest, and John draws lines over his back with blunt of his nails.“Try and get some sleep, yeah.You feel a little warm.”

“It’s probably going to turn into the flu.”

“It’s not going to turn into the flu.”

“It could.”

“It won’t.”

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being ill.”

“You don’t have to apologise for that, you idiot.Just get some sleep.You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“But the case!”

“Thought that wasn’t a done deal.”

“It is.We’re supposed to leave tomorrow.I forgot to tell you.”

John sighs.“And just what are we doing with Ro?”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Didn’t she say that she’s having someone nearly the whole month for Christmas?That friend she went to Paris to see last week.”

“Margaret loves children—apparently.”

“Who the hell is Margaret?”

“The someone.The friend.Well, I say friend…”

“What’s that supposed mean?”

Sherlock looks up at him, eyes already growing heavy, and arches a brow.

John just shakes his head, and Sherlock sighs.“Margaret was Mrs. Hudson chief bridesmaid when she married that idiot and ran off to Florida.Apparently they reconnected last month on one of those ridiculous dating apps.”

“Wait.What?You mean she’s a girlfriend?!Like a _girlfriend_ girlfriend, not just a girl friend?”

“Mmm.So it seems.”

John thinks about it for a moment.“That a first?”

“Oh no.”

“What?Really?”

“There was a woman in Florida, a few months after her husband was executed.Yelena, I believe her name was…”

“Huh…”John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.“I guess you just never know about people.”

“Yes well…”Sherlock yawns.“You can be remarkably unobservant about some things, John.”

John wants to protest, on principal, but he supposes that Sherlock isn’t entirely wrong, and it seems he’s starting to drift off, so best to not start a row now.

“And do we know this Margaret is the sort of person we want Ro around?I love Mrs. Hudson like my own mother, but she doesn’t exactly have the best track record with lovers.”

“She’s arriving tomorrow before we leave,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s t-shirt.“If she’s a serial killer or drug dealer I can bribe Molly to take Rosie.”

John huffs into Sherlock’s hair.“You know she doesn’t fall for your nonsense anymore.Besides, Greg told me he’s planning on proposing the Saturday before Christmas.He’d never forgive you if you threw a wrench in that.”

“‘Bout time…”Sherlock slurs, clearly half asleep.

“I guess we’ll work something out.”

“I’s fine.And if not she’ll come with…”

“We’re not dragging our daughter on a case.Rule number one.”

“Mmm…”Sherlock hums and then lets out a soft snore, and John stares down at him, and smiles.

“I love you,” he whispers and gets no response save another louder snore.

“Lovely.”

But he doesn’t mind, not really.He’ll lie awake and luxuriate in the even sound of Sherlock’s breathing, the warm, angular length of his body against his, the fact that he has him here, breathing, alive, something John had dreamt of every night for over two, long years.

“I don’t deserve to be so happy,” he whispers to no one in particular, and Sherlock chooses that moment to let out a remarkably loud snore, given the nasal strip he’s wearing.

John rolls his eyes, and suppresses a chuckle. 

He could read for awhile…

He stares down at the riot of inky curls spread out over the white cotton of his t-shirt, the small spot of drool already forming there, and smiles.He reaches over, shuts off the light, shifts a little, and pulls Sherlock closer still.


	9. Day 9 - Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Day 9 - Running**

“Right.And of course there would be snow…”John mumbles as he rushes out the front door of their flat, overnight bags in hand, and ducks into the waiting cab. 

“Paddigton Thtathon.” Sherlock orders as he gets in himself, sounding much less intimidating with his stuffy nose and the lisp that always seems to appear with exhaustion or illness.“And if you could be quick aboud it, that’d be…”John presses a foot against Sherlock's.“Good,” he finishes lamely.

“I can’t believe you forgot to set the fucking alarm.”John grumbles as he slumps back against the seat and pinches at the bridge of his nose. 

“There’s no real rush.”

“Thought we were going to catch the 8:00 o’clock train.”

“Well, if we miss it, we’ll catch the 10:00 o’clock one.”

John narrows his eyes.“Thought someone from the local police was meant to be meeting us when we got there.Gregson, didn’t you say his name was?”

Sherlock looks momentarily caught out.“Well yeth, bud I can…Fine.We’ll rush and worry.”

John huffs through his nose.“Might be the polite thing to show up on time.”

“Thince when do you worry about polide.”

John scowls, but he can’t really disagree.

There is a ridiculous amount of traffic as they turn onto Praed Street, and John leans forward to address their cabbie.“This usual for this time of day?”

“Bit, and then there’s the construction.It’s all along here.Bloody ill thought out right at the holiday season.”

John sits back and glances down at his watch just as their cab comes to a dead stop.“We’re not going to make it.”He shakes his head.

“Don’d be ridiculous.”Sherlock sits forward himself.“Stob the cab.”

“What?Here?”

“Yesth.Thorry.Have to dash.”

John rolls his eyes as Sherlock darts from the cab in the middle of traffic, scrambles around in his billfold for some cash, which he tosses at the cabbie, and then follows after him.

“Cub on John!”

John races after him, and when he finally catches up, Sherlock reaches back and takes his hand, in the middle of the crowded street, he takes his hand, and just keeps on running.John feels his cheeks flare, but after a moment of dashing madly, careening through crowds of irritated and astonished people, the wind and snow biting against his cheeks.He’s smiling again.Laughing really, because isn’t it just Sherlock altogether. 

It isn’t until they’ve skidded to a halt on the scuffed tiles in the lobby of Paddington, that he finally comes back down to earth with a jolt when he remembers he’s forgotten their bags in the back of the cab.

“Oh shit, the bags.”

Sherlock spins around with a scowl.“Wad bagth?Our bagth?”

“Yeah, I was so keen on making sure you didn’t get plowed down by a lorry, while simultaneously trying to pay the cabbie—ta for that, by the way—that I…Well, their still in the back of the bloody cab.”

“John, I had my labtob in that bag!”

“Yeah well—next time carry your own fucking bag!”John sniffs and balls a fist.He doesn’t want to do this.He doesn’t want to fight.“Sorry.Sorry, we’ll just have to go to the lost property office when we get back.There’s nothing for it.”

“And justht what are we suppoed to wear id the iterim?”

“Guess you’re taking me shopping.”

He sees Sherlock consider it.“No.I need by labtob.”

John sighs.“Fine.What do you suggest?”

“He’th probably thtill thtuck in traffic.Let’th go back.”

“You sound terrible.”

“I’m find.”

And so they do go back, and wonder of wonders they do find their cabbie, still stuck in traffic.He seems rather relieved to see them, as he was no doubt not looking forward to having to go out of his way to turn their luggage in to the police.

Sherlock is about to grab their bags and go, but John yanks him back into the warm backseat of the cab, as he turns to the cabbie.“How about you take us to Victoria Station.”

The man shakes his head.“Suit yourselves.”

John turns to Sherlock, who cheeks are flushed, eyes glazed, and nods for him to shut the door to the cab.“We had to take the Circle line to Victoria anyway.This will just be easier.And maybe you can sleep a little on the way over.

“I don’d need to sleeb.”

John grins.“Yeah you do.Listen to you.We probably shouldn’t even be going.”

“No!We hab to go!”

“You and this case.You still haven’t told me what it’s all about, and it must be a ten with the way you’re going on about it.”

And there’s the look again.“It’th impordand.”

John sighs.“Yeah, okay.But if you get any sicker, the case is going to wait.Doctor’s orders.”

To his surprise, Sherlock doesn’t object.He just melts back against the seat of the cab and lets his eyes slide shut.

They get to Victoria Station without further mishap.They don’t miss their train.They remember their bags from the cab, and when they are finally settled in their seats, and the train is on its way, it becomes evident just how sick Sherlock is.

He’s shivering, and warm, and John feels for him.He’d suggest they go back if not for the fact that Sherlock seems so keen on the case, so much so, that John has begun to suspect that it’s more than meets the eye.

So instead he just reaches over and takes Sherlock’s hand.Sherlock looks down at it, up at the old woman crocheting an afghan in the seat across from them, and then at John.John jerks his chin toward his shoulder.“Try and sleep, Love.”

Sherlock blinks.

“You’re officially sick.So try and get some rest.We won’t be there for almost two hours.”

He isn’t sure, but John thinks Sherlock’s eyes look a little full.

“Are you sick, Lovie?”The old woman across from them asks, unexpectedly.

“I’b fide.”

John barely suppresses a grin.

She smiles, leans down, and roots around in the tapestry satchel at her feet.After a moment she pulls out a rainbow coloured afghan, and hands it across to John.“Was meant to be for my grandson, Clive.I’m going to spend Christmas with him.I make him a new one every year for all those festivities they have in Brighton every summer, but you keep it.I’ve plenty of time to make another.”

John is stunned at the generosity, at the simple act of kindness.He’s at a loss for words.Luckily Sherlock doesn’t seem to be equally inhibited.He reaches over and takes the blanket from John, and drapes it over himself, tucking it up under his chin, before leaning over to rest his head on John’s shoulder.

“Thank you.Mode kind.”

She smiles and nods, and then goes back to working on the afghan in her lap.

John reaches down and smooths a hand over the small package he’d slipped into his pocket before they’d left that morning.He’d finally had a chance to get some private shopping in, and what had seemed a risky prospect a few weeks ago, seems more and more like the right decision with each passing day.It’s a good gift.It’s wanted.He’s almost certain of that now.

Sherlock shivers against his shoulder, and he reaches down to pull the blanket a little higher and smooth a hand over his damp hair.


	10. Day 10 - The Nutcracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 10 - The Nutcracker**

Sherlock hires a car when they get to Eastbourne, and John insists that he drive.Sherlock is still shivering, and he wants to get him to their hotel, or Bed and Breakfast, or wherever it is they’re going, and into a warm bath, and a warm bed, as soon as possible.

Sherlock mumbles out runny-nosed driving directions from his seat.He’s still wrapped up in the afghan that had been unexpectedly gifted him on the train, and he’s cocooned in it like it’s the only thing keeping him cognisant. 

It doesn’t take them long to reach the twin villages of Friston and East Dean, And John turns left off of the the A259 at a small, country church, and onto a gravel lane.“Where are you taking us?Thought this was some old family, lots of money, blah, blah, blah.Don’t know who the bloody hell would want to live all the way out here.”

Sherlock cracks an eye open, and pulls the rainbow stripes up under his chin.“You don’t lige it?”

John glances over at him, at his pink cheeks, and the curls clinging damply to his pale forehead, and just shakes his head.“Listen, at this point I don’t care if you’re taking us to a stable because there’s no room left at the inn, as long as there’s a warm place for you to sleep, and food.Now, where am I going?”

Sherlock sits up a little and squints into the blowing snow.“The segond drive ub there, on the righd, I think.”

John pulls in, and stares out the windscreen at the brick dwelling in front of them.Not really small enough to be considered a cottage, but not big enough to be called a house, it’s hard to define, but it’s simple, and homely, and rather unassuming, warm, and solidly built, and with the weather seemingly getting worse with every passing minute, it looks welcoming enough.

“We just letting rooms, or the whole place?”

“All ob it.”

“You got a key?”

Sherlock nods. 

“Okay.Let yourself in.I think that building down there might be a garage, and I want to get our car out of the snow.I’ll meet you in there.”

John watches as Sherlock leans in against the wind and snow, and shuffles through the already gathering drifts to the front door.He rolls his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer of thanks.It’s not every day that Mother Nature cooperates with Dr. Watson’s orders, but he’s fairly certain they won’t be going anywhere in the morning if the weather keeps up the way it is.

The stone building just behind the house does prove to be a garage.Mostly likely a small stable at one point, but there is a variety of gardening equipment stowed inside, and what appears to be a an old, rundown lawn tractor parked in one of the stalls.Their small rental fits perfectly in the remaining one.There are no doors, but it’s out of the snow and wind, and it will do.

John gets out and shivers before opening the back door and reaching into the back seat for their bags.The hiss of the icy wind is strong, but there is something else behind it, softer and more distant.He wonders if maybe it’s the sea.They are very close, close enough that the air has that slight salt smell that he remembers from rare summers by the seaside as a boy, rare bright spots in an otherwise bleak childhood, and a smell he would sometimes inexplicably wake to in the middle of the searing desert, sensory memory, the last vestiges of some dream he couldn’t remember.

He breathes deep, and feels his whole body relax.Case or no case, it might be fun to be away from London for a few days.Work has been monotonous lately.Fatherhood continues to be a challenge, and he’s been tired, and anxious for months.Some days he thinks he should bring it up in therapy.Others he thinks it’s just him getting old and useless, but he feels a little lighter standing in the cold shelter of the garage, and staring out at the blowing snow.

Now, as long as Sherlock doesn’t come down with pneumonia…

John bangs the snow from his shoes as he steps out of the cold into the small foyer of the cottage.“How’s it look?!”He calls.He can see a light shining in one of the rooms off the foyer.A parlour, most likely, in a house this old.

“Hey Sherlock?”He toes off his shoes, picks up their bags, and heads toward where he assumes Sherlock must have gotten to. 

He glances into some of the other rooms as he goes, a small study, what looks like a formal dining room that is mostly empty, and not being used for much of anything, it seems, and then, at the end of the foyer, where the light had been emanating from, a lounge.It’s a good house.The windows must be new, because he can hardly hear the wind outside, and it’s warm, despite the fact that it is obviously heated by a combination ofpost-war radiators and fireplaces or wood-burning stoves.

It reminds him of his Gran’s house.All worn wood floors, chintz sofas, and faded watercolour landscape paintings in gilt frames adorning the plaster walls.He sets their bags down at the entrance to the lounge.There’s a giant hearth, quite obviously the heart of the home, which has at some point been converted to wood-burning stove. 

Sherlock is just lighting a fire inside.

“Homely.”John offers.

“Warb and oud of duh wedder, at leatht.”

John suppresses a smile.“Mmm.There a kitchen?”

“Yeth.They lefd uth food.”

Sherlock shuts the door to the wood stove, and weaves on his feet a little.

John walks over and presses a hand to Sherlock’s forehead.“You’re burning up.Sit down okay.I’m going to get you some Paracetamol.”

Sherlock doesn’t argue, which worries him even more.

When he gets back to lounge, Sherlock is standing in front of the hearth, holding his hands out toward the stove.

“Told you to sit down.Meant you should stay that way.”

“Cold.”

“You think there’s a bathtub?I’ll run you a bath.”

“Ubstairs.”

John hands Sherlock the tablets and a glass of water, and then goes up to run him a bath.The top floor has two bedrooms and a decent sized bathroom for such an old house.The clawfoot bathtub is deep, and as long as the hot water heater decides to cooperate, John just thinks that maybe they might even be able to share a bath.

A few minutes later, the water is roaring, plumes of steam curling up to the ceiling, and John has just turned to root through the bath things someone has been kind enough to leave by the sink, when Sherlock strolls in sniffing the air delicately.

“I wad the labender thig.”

“Lavender bath salts it is!”He holds up the the glass jar labelled ‘Lavender’ and tosses in a scoop.The whole room instantly fills with the calming scent.

“Johd?”

“Mmm…?”

“Will you thtay?”

“Was kind of hoping you’d ask.Bloody freezing out there.”

They both strip, and Sherlock audibly moans when he slips below the surface of the water and into John’s arms.John combs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, as he collapses back against his chest.“You’re lucky I love you so much.You had no business going out to the bakery with your coat wide open the other day, dashing all about in the cold today.Absolute menace, you are.”

“Thorry.”

“Good.Now shut up and relax.We’re staying here until the water starts to cool.”

And they do.John washes Sherlock’s hair and back, and listens as the steam loosens his congestion.He gets out first, and insists Sherlock stay in the water until he’s dashed downstairs and gotten them some pyjamas out of their bags.Predictably, he finds that Sherlock has brought nothing warm, so he snatches up some of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and then one of his own t-shirts, jumpers and pairs of socks.

When he gets back upstairs Sherlock is still lying back in the water, eyes closed.John stand-in the doorway and leans against the jamb.“You didn’t bring a single warm thing.Were we meant to go to Fiji, and you just got on the wrong train?”

“Don’t be ridiculuth.You can’t get to Fiji by train.”

“You sound better.Less congested.”And when he gets no response.“I brought you one of my jumpers and some socks.”Sherlock opens his mouth, but John cuts him off.“No objections.Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock pouts.“Fine.”

“Good.Now out you come.”

The jumper is tight across the chest and too short in the arms, and Sherlock admittedly looks a little ridiculous, but at least he’s warm.When they get back downstairs, John gets him a nasal strip, and gets him tucked in on the sofa with his afghan, and then goes to make tea and hunt down something warm for an early supper.There is bread, and butter, and cheese, and tinned soup on the cupboard.He’ll make a cheese toasty for himself, and maybe just some hot toast for Sherlock, and they can both have soup.But for now—tea.

When he gets back to the lounge a short while later, Sherlock is standing over by the hearth again with something in his hands.John sets their tea down on the coffee table, and walks over to see what has him so engrossed.

“You were meant to stay tucked in.What’s that, then?”He’s close enough now to see a large nutcracker in Sherlock’s hands, the ornamental soldier sort that is so popular this time of year.“Uh, that’s a nice one.”

“Mmm.I had one as a boy, bud I’m not sure what happened to it.”

“Yeah?A gift or something?”

“Yes, from my father after I’d danced the titular character.”

“Wait, you were in the nutcracker?”

“Yeth.It was a youth production, but…”

“Ballet.Like you actually danced.”

“Of courth.”Sherlock pulls the nutcracker close to his chest like an infant.

John can hear the insecurity in his voice.At least he’s pretty sure that’s what it is.It’s something he’s been working on with Ella, reading other people’s emotions.Especially Sherlock, and Rosie, and he thinks he’s gotten fairly good at knowing when Sherlock is feeling embarrassed.

He walks up and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist.“Didn’t know you could dance.I mean obviously you’re a top notch waltzer, but didn’t know you did the professional stuff.”

“I wathn’t a professional.I was a child.”

“And most likely brilliant.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John feels the tension drain from his body.

“Gorgeous even.”John teases, and can practically feel Sherlock blushing.“Absolutely perfect.”

“Yeth, alright.”

John chuckles.“Wish someone had taped it.”

“I’m sure Mummy did.”

“Really?Oh, I’m getting my hands on that.Ro would love it.You know how mad she is forthe Nutcracker!”

“She’th two and half, I’m sure she just liketh the mice.”

John laughs.“Probably.Now come drink your tea.Soup and toast sound okay for lunch?”

“Yeth.”

“Okay.Come and sit then.” 

The lounge is toasty warm now, and Sherlock lets himself be tucked back in on the sofa, John sitting on the far end, on top of his toes to keep them warm.“This place is nice.Something the clients arranged, or did you find the place all on your own?”

“I _am_ capable of booking a B&B, John.”

“Yeah, but you usually make me do it.”

Sherlock takes a sip of his tea.“I arranged it, yeth.”

“Well, well done.Homely, this.”He glances over and smiles, and Sherlock’s cheeks blush even as his eyes flit away.

“You like it, then?”

“Yeah.Thought I could hear the sea when I was out parking the car.Reminded me of summers at my Gran’s.Never been to the seaside in the winter, though.Kind of nice.Bracing.”

“Mmm.”Sherlock takes another sip of tea.

John leans back against the back of the sofa and stretches his feet out toward the stove.“You heard from our clients?”

“Not yet.”

“They know we’re here.”

“Yeth.”

“Well with the way that snow is coming down, and they way you are feeling, if they want to talk to you, they can bloody well come here, tomorrow.I’ll not have you going out and getting sicker.”

“Fine.”

John looks over at his suspiciously acquiescent patient, sitting and sipping his tea innocently, and narrows his eyes.“You know, you don’t seem exceptionally keen on this case.If I didn’t know better, I’d say you dragged us out here just for the holiday.”

“Don’t be ridiculuth.”

“Mmm.”John reaches out and lays a hand on Sherlock’s thigh.“Would be alright though, just so you know.”

Sherlock looks up at him over the rim of his teacup, before lowering it to his chest.“I’ll take that under advithement.”


	11. Day 11 - Love Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 2- Walking Home Drunk**

It’s the wee hours.Sherlock is sleeping, but John can’t.

He was wakened by the silence, a thing so thick and pervasive it had almost felt tangible.When he’d slipped from bed and toed into some warm socks, flung a dressing gown over his pyjamas, and padded to the bedroom window, it was to the sight of at least a foot of white blanketing the back garden, and fat flakes still floating down from the heavy skies. 

The weather seems a little bit of a Christmas miracle, he thinks.It doesn’t usually snow in this part of the country, at this time of year.He makes his way downstairs and feels a little like a naughty child early Christmas morning, sneaking down to see if he can spy out his meagre gifts under the tree without getting caught.

He adds some logs to embers still glowing in the stove, and then goes into the kitchen and makes himself some tea.He stands a long time at the door to the back garden, looking out the window at the velvet soft mounds, growing larger and larger with each passing moment.

He thinks of Rosie, sick with a cold back in London, thinks about how delighted she would be by the snow, and the wide open spaces, by the distant smell of the sea, and all the rooms to explore, and he suddenly aches with missing her.He takes a bracing mouthful of tea to quell the emotion, burning the roof of his mouth in the process, before finally turning away, and going back into the lounge.It’s warm now, and will be perfect for Sherlock to come down and eat his breakfast in a couple of hours.

Hours during which John will need to find a way to occupy himself.

He decides to explore the house.He wanders toward the front, and the study he’d seen on his way in the day before.There is an odd assortment of books, on the shelves behind a heavy mahogany desk: old military histories, cookbooks, some faded Victorian tome on astronomy, an eclectic collection of pocket books that mostly seem to have been published between the fifties and nineties, some leather-bound classics, right along side a small handful of books on bee-keeping and gardening.

Tucked behind the bookcase is a small assortment of canvases, half finished paintings in oils, and some lovely watercolours.Seascapes mostly, but one or two of what he assumes is the cottage’s back garden.In one, a shirtless man hoes rows in the dirt, skin brown as a nut and glistening with sweat.He finds the same man swimming in the sea in one of the seascapes.He is painted with the sort of attention and beauty that makes it clear he meant something to the artist.Her husband, perhaps?

John sits down at the desk and pulls open the drawers, finds a fountain pen in the top one.He pulls it out and balances it in his palm. It’s a weighty thing.Very fine.Some equally fine writing paper, too, though it is starting to yellow with age.

He closes the drawer and opens the one below it.It sticks a little, but he gets it open with a few, firm, rapid tugs.There are paintbrushes inside, a scrap book of pressed flowers, and on the last page of that, a newspaper clipping of an obituary. 

> _William Frederick Anderson, age 81, passed away peacefully in his sleep, in his garden, in Friston, surrounded by his bees, his dog Charlie, and those he loved on Saturday, 13 June, 2003._
> 
> _He was born on February 7, 1922 in Meiringen, Switzerland to Oscar Charles and Mary (Boroughs) Anderson._
> 
> _William completed his medical training at the Karolinska Institute in Stockholm. On June 10, 1952, he married Alice Sue Davis, and moved to Oxford soon after. Together, they had two daughters._
> 
> _William and Alice enjoyed traveling together as well as spending time with family and friends. William was a professor of medicine at Oxford University Medical School where he made lifelong relationships with many teachers and students. And was remembered for his assistance in coordinating the early efforts in the development of the NHS we know and love today.A scholarship in his name is sponsored and financed by a former student._
> 
> _William retired to Friston East Dean in 1972, upon the death of his wife, Alice.His special interests and hobbies included painting, and bee-keeping. He is survived by his best friend and life partner of 30 years, James; daughters, Olivia and Charlotte; and 3 grandchildren._
> 
> _Memorial services will be held on Saturday, 20 June, 2003 at noon at Braithwaite Woods, 304 Seaford Lane, Friston.James will greet friends at the glade on Saturday from 10:00 am until the time of service._

John traces a finger over the words.This cottage?This garden?Strange that the cottage was simply left as is, and never cleared of William and James’ belongings. 

He smiles.A house with a bit of a mystery and a romance all tied up in one.Leave it to Sherlock to find them a place like this to stay.He leans back in the leather desk chair, and stares at the paintings leaning up against the wall by the bookcase, seeing them with new eyes.Getting to his feet, he picks up the one of the garden, and imagines William standing there painting all he could see, everything he loved in one pastoral stretch.There are even some white beehives visible in the background, now John knows to look.

He sets the painting down, picks up his cup of tea, and wanders back down to the door to the back garden.Everything is white, and it’s still dark, so it’s hard to be sure, but he thinks that perhaps the four white lumps at the very back of the garden may just be beehives.And the bench a few meters away, at the edge of the slightly raised outline of what he imagines must be a garden bed, would have been exactly where William stood as he painted.

He goes back to the study, and carefully stows the paintings back where he found them.They seem all the more precious now there is a story to go with with them.He pushes the desk chair in, and has just begun his fight with the sticky desk drawer, when he hears a click and a pile of old, faded envelops tumble into the middle of it.John leans down and stares into the back.Some sort of secret compartment, it seems.

The envelops have all been opened, and are dated over a stretch of 15 years, from 1957 to 1972.He pulls out the earliest one, feeling a tad guilty, but awash with a curiosity that cannot be quelled.

> _Will,_
> 
> _May I call you that again?_
> 
> _I was happy to receive word that you agreed to this correspondence.I can see no impropriety in it now that you are no longer supervising my internship._
> 
> _I’m afraid I quite disappointed you, didn’t I.You had high hopes, and then I ran off to Paris to train with Peter at Giverny instead.I was quite afraid you hated me, you know, that you would never forgive me for disappointing you so, and I never could bear to disappoint you.But medicine just wasn’t for me, I knew that by third year, and soldiered on like an idiot.You can hardly fault me for following my heart, can you?_
> 
> _How are you?I was sorry to hear your wife had been ill.Terrence tells me that you are a father!I can hardly imagine?Does it suit you?Daughter or son?_
> 
> _Things continue to be well with me.I’m in Provence now.I think of you often, and that night at the Macdonald Randolph, especially.You must forgive me for that.Please say that you do.I was half out of my mind with grief, and I shouldn’t have called you there under false pretence.It was low and thoughtless of me, and could very well have cost you your career and your family.You were more generous than I deserved, and I have carried the memory of it with me all these years, and still dust it off now and again when I am in special need of comfort._
> 
> _Dear god, I hope you’re well and happy.You are still at Oxford?Take care with our correspondences.I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you on my account.I imagine I still have quite the reputation there, and my traipsing off to Paris in the dead of night, to ‘_ study flowers’ _has, I’m sure, done nothing to quell the rumours._
> 
> _Provence suits me.The climate is somewhat more humid than I prefer, but there is a surprising freedom here, and I never find myself at loss for company.I’ve been contemplating heading for Italy next year, but I fear I may not find so much acceptance there.I will see where my heart leads me in the Spring._
> 
> _Do write, Will.I long for news of you._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _James_

“Sherlock…Hey Sherlock, wake up.”John crawls onto the mattress in the first grey promise of dawn, and glides his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.He feels less warm.There was plenty of snoring the night before, but the nasal strip seemed to do its work.

Sherlock whinges, but turns into his touch at the same time.“Sleeping.”

“Yeah, I know, but I found a little mystery.”

“What?”Sherlock’s eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep, and his brow knots in the way that always makes John want to lift a finger and smooth it out.He does.“None of that.It’s a nice mystery.Well, at least I think it is.”

“A case?”

“No, not the case, just the mystery of the people who lived here before us.”

Sherlock’s eyes open a little wider at that.If John didn’t know better he’d think it was worry he sees in his eyes.“Oh?”

“Yeah, or maybe family, or someone, owned it after them, but they just left all their stuff here.Look.”

He holds up the letters, and Sherlock rubs a hand over his face, and lets John arrange some pillows behind him, before lounging back again.

“They’re love letters, I think.”

Sherlock just stares at him blankly.

“Between two blokes.From the 50s - 70s.I think they were living here together from 1972 until the eldest of them died.”

He sees Sherlock relax.“You woke me for this?”

John huffs.“Don’t be a Scrooge.”

“I fail to see why this is a mystery.”

“Feeling better I see.”

Sherlock frowns and John grins.“I’m just saying that we have all these letters, and I think they stretch over the whole of their relationship.And their books, and paintings, and stuff are all still downstairs in the study.Who knows what’s in the attic.Maybe this was even their bed.”

“Did one of them die in it?”

John huffs out a laugh.“I don’t think so.Will went first, and he died out in the back garden, having a nap with his dog, watching over his beehives, or so the obituary says.”

He sees Sherlock perk up at that, and doesn’t know if it’s the mention of death or the beehives that’s got him so excited.

“He also painted.”John continues.“And there are paintings of James down in the study.Nice looking bloke.Fit and tan, you know.Don’t blame him for wanting to paint him all the time.”

“Mmm, I see.”

John watches as Sherlock’s eyes slide shut and he sighs rather more dramatically than necessary.

He reaches down and lays a hand on his forehead, which really isn’t necessary, but this is Sherlock being a miracle and a menace in one lovely package.“You jealous of a painting?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hmm, that’s good, because I thought maybe we could prop it up on the mantle and enjoy it while we’re here.”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open and John laughs.“I’m kidding.You are jealous!”

“Are you sure you aren’t getting feverish. You sound quite delusional.”

“I love you.Now you want me to read you some of these letters, or not?They’re really interesting.”

Sherlock sighs heavily.“If you must.But bring me tissue first.I need to blow my nose.”

“Demanding.You are feeling better.”

Sherlock pouts some more, but John can see the ghost of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

They spend at least an hour in the bedroom scouring through the letters, piecing together a life and a love story, one letter at a time, and then move to the warmth of the lounge, where John brings them tea, and toast, and they read some more. 

It is, he thinks, one of the most enjoyable mornings he can remember spending with Sherlock, in a very long time.They laugh, they’re surprised, they even cry a couple of times, and when they get through the last of the letters around lunchtime Sherlock leans back on the sofa and stares over at the flames flickering behind the door of the wood stove.“I didn’t know any of that when I let this house.”

“It’s nice when houses have history.Was thinking maybe we could come back sometime, bring Rosie.She’s never been to the seaside.No real beach out here, I don’t think, but Brighton’s not far, and I think there’s a sandy beach in Seaford, maybe.”

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the fire and looks up at him.“You would want to?”

“Yeah.It’s nice here.”

Sherlock nods and looks back at the flames.“Good.That’s good.We should then.”

“Yeah?Fantastic.Listen, you want some more tea before I make lunch?”

“Yes, please.”It’s distant and distracted.John can see all the signs of a mind palace session gearing up.Perhaps Sherlock is going to store away the contents of the letters they’ve just read, or maybe he just has other things on his mind.Whatever it is, John is glad to see theprescribed mini-convalescence is doing him some good.


	12. Day 12 - Morning Rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 12 - Morning Rituals**
> 
> **Author's Note:** Please note the following new tag for this chapter - #blow jobs.

After breakfast John shaves while Sherlock showers and then goes back to the bedroom to dress.When he comes back into the loo, and picks up his toothbrush, he is wearing John’s jumper again.John picks up his toothbrush and grins around it, but doesn’t say a word.

He heads back downstairs, and gathers up their breakfast dishes from the lounge, taking them into the kitchen.The sun is up properly now, but the sky is still slate grey.The snow has slowed to a fine dusting, but the wind is still brisk.John feels cold just looking at, and is grateful for the warmth of the small kitchen with its aged wood cabinets, and its grey limestone floors, worn into soft grooves near the counters from a lifetime of foot traffic.

He starts a little when Sherlock comes up behind him, and wraps his arms around his waist.“I’ve been unforgivable.”Murmured against the shell of John’s ear.

“You’ve been sick.”

“And a _menace_ , as you’re so fond of reminding me.”

John turns in his arms, and stares up at him.His cheeks are still pink, but he isn’t sure if it’s due to the shower or his cold.He is decidedly less congested.He reaches up and presses the back of his hand to Sherlock’s forehead.“You’re on the mend, I think.”

“Mm, well I have a good doctor.”

John slides a hand down his chest and plucks at the front of the jumper.“This going to become a regular thing, you borrowing my things.”

“Doubtful.”

“You do sound better.”

“Still contagious, possibly.”

“That you trying to avoid having to kiss this old man?”

Sherlock holds his gaze and lifts a hand to brush his fringe aside.“Never.”He leans forward and presses his lips to John’s forehead, and John leans in to the caress, eyes sliding shut, suddenly realising how much he’s missed it, even though it’s only been a couple of days, and he feels a bit foolish, because he’s loved Sherlock for years, but it’s never been like this, not even in the full year they’ve been together—this hunger, this need, neediness.He’s embarrassed by it, really, but not enough to step away.

“I’ve been neglecting you,” Sherlock whispers against his forehead.

John shakes his head.“You’ve been sick.”

Sherlock peppers kisses slowly over his forehead, down to his temple, behind his ear.John’s breath catches.“I believe you’re right, John.I’m on the mend.”

“Mm.”

“Indeed.”Sherlock smears his mouth along John’s neck, down to the crook of his shoulder, sucks hard, and John moans and feels his cheeks flare at how wanton he sounds.He can feel Sherlock smiling against his skin, feel his hands sliding down, over his hips, around to cup his arse and drag him close.“Let me?”

And John doesn’t know what he’s asking, but does it really matter?It’s part of the thrill with Sherlock, the constant surprise.“Yeah.God, yeah.”

And then Sherlock is dropping to his knees on the stone floor, and pressing his face to the front of John’s trousers, and John’s knees buckle.He reaches out for the countertop with one hand, and for the top of Sherlock’s head with the other, fisting curls, and gently easing Sherlock’s head back so he is looking at him.

Sherlock frowns, and John rubs his fingers against his scalp.“You don’t need to do this.You’re still sick.”

“And if I want to?”

John opens his mouth to reply, and doesn’t know what to say.

“Don’t be boring.”Sherlock holds his gaze, reaches up and palms the front of John’s trousers.He’s already half-hard, more than, and his whole body lights up.His head falls back, until he feels the pressure of Sherlock’s touch lessen, and his fingers move to John’s flies, and then he drops his chin to look down at Sherlock again, just as Sherlock drops his zip and pulls him out.

Sherlock looks at him, for a moment, flushed, and plump, and twitching.He swallows, licks his lips, and then looks up at John from beneath heavy lids.“Don’t you dare be quiet.You don’t have to be here.”

John’s mouth falls open.“You’ll be the death of me.”

“I very much hope not.”And with that Sherlock swallows him down, and John does just as he’s been told, he moans long, and loud, and Christ, but isn’t it good to just let it all out, to not have to hold back because of their landlady downstairs, or Rosie upstairs, or the bloody neighbours (who honestly probably wouldn’t care anyway).

He feels Sherlock shiver at the sound, his grip on the top and back of John’s thighs tightening.Sherlock moans in turn, and John feels it in and around him.He’s not going to last.He hadn’t realised how hungry he’d been.Why, he doesn’t know.This is the third time in less than two weeks, which is unprecedented for them.Christmas spirit is proving a powerful and erotic thing this year, it seems.

John laughs out loud at the thought, and feels Sherlock pull off, much to his dismay.He looks down at Sherlock’s knit brow.“Just thinking how I didn’t know that Christmas spirit could reduce a bloke to a hormonal teenager.Three times in two weeks?!”

A smile teases the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and he chuckles.“Do shut up, John.I’m rather busy here.”And he swallows him down again.John is just starting to ache, again, from the warm, wet, heat of Sherlock’s mouth, when he pulls back again.“Actually, don’t shut up.I rather like the sounds you make, but you know…”

“Christ.Yes, I know.Just…”And John reaches out for Sherlock’s head, rocks his hips forward, feeling like a desperate, aching, keening thing when Sherlock takes him in again with a smile, and starts to do something with his tongue that leaves John breathless.

The fire Sherlock is stoking in John’s veins doesn’t take long to reach its peak.Sherlock has always been exceptionally good at this, the way he wraps two fingers and a thumb around John’s base, and strokes him in unison with the slide of his tongue, the hot suction of his mouth, the way he moans against him, and the saliva.God!the first time Sherlock had taken John in, he couldn’t believe how wet he had been.

This morning is no different, and John is scrambling to support himself against the counter, heat bursting, toes curling, a loud shout filling the small kitchen, in no time.Sherlock swallows him down, every drop, and then leans back on his calves, and licks his lips like a satisfied cat.It’s something that still awes John a little, every time, because he doesn’t need to do it, and John has told him so, and still Sherlock does, says he likes it, likes having John’s cells inside his body.

John looks down through his post-orgasmic haze, and can see the front of Sherlock’s trousers, tented and straining, the way Sherlock is stroking the inside of his own thigh, subconsciously.His chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, and he is still sick, and the floor is cold, and…

John reaches out a hand.“Come on.Up.”

Sherlock takes his hand, lets himself be led back upstairs to the bedroom, laid out on the bed, and lets John root about in his bag for some lube, take him in hand, and stroke him slow, and tender, with kisses to his belly, and the inside of his thighs, until he trembles and shakes apart with a breathy moan, and lets John pull him close, even though they are both fully clothed, and haven’t cleaned up.

And Sherlock falls back asleep like that, of course he does, because he _is_ still ill, and he had no business getting down on his knees on a cold stone floor just to give John the pleasure and release he hadn’t even realised he had been craving, but isn’t that just Sherlock all over the last few years.

John pulls him a little closer, and presses his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head.“Maybe should make a little morning ritual out of this,” he murmurs quietly.

“Mmm…”Sherlock hums halfway between awake and asleep.


	13. Day 13 - Cooking a Family Recipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Day 13 - Cooking a Family Recipe**

John looks around him to see if anyone is watching, but all that’s visible on Crowlink Lane is his own set of footprints down the middle of a stretch of sparkling snow, trees glittering with hoar frost, and a flock of sheep just the other side of the fence behind the church, one of which seems to have taken an interest in John.

Sure that no one is watching, he turns back to the animal poking it’s nose through the fence at him, and lets it sniff the front of his coat.“Hello there lad.You cold?Not likely with that coat.”

The sheep lets out a bleat, and John cocks a brow.“Sorry, my man.I’ve not got any breakfast for you.I’m sure it’s coming.”

The sheep bleats again, and John gives its head a pat before turning back to the lane, and continuing his way toward the village. 

Sherlock is still tucked away warm back at the cottage, pouting no doubt.John had got up that morning, craving his gran’s tea cakes, and since they didn’t have everything they needed to make them, he decided he’d just have to go into town to get the missing ingredients.Sherlock had, of course, wanted to come, but John has said no, and there had been a great deal of sulking.But he’d stayed in the end.And there’d still been nary a mention of meeting up with their supposed clients.So, Sherlock’s quick recovery seems to be an assured thing.

Truth be told, John misses his company.With all the snow he’s not even sure that the shops will even be open, but he needed some fresh air, and though he wasn’t sure he wanted to brave the roads in their rental, he was more than happy to take a brisk walk.The sun is shining, the world looks like a jewel box of ice and snow, and he feels better already.Maybe he should have let Sherlock come after all…

He reaches the end of the their lane and turns right onto the A259.There is what appears to be a rather worn pedestrian path along one side of the road, but it hasn’t been cleared, and is deep with snow.He sigs.Perhaps he should have tried to brave the roads in the car after allIt will be a difficult trudge, and it’s a fair distance, about a kilometre there and back.

He begins his hike through the snow and is huffing and puffing in no time.Christ, he needs to get more fit.They don’t take the dangerous cases as much as they used to, and there has been considerably less dashing about, as a resultSo here he is being bested by a rather heavy snowfall, and feeling quite the old man.

He can hear a car coming slowly up the road behind him.No doubt only a slightly lesser fool than he.So far he hasn’t seen a single vehicle.The car slows as it approaches him on the opposite side of the road.“Need a ride, Soldier?”

John drops his head and smiles at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, before dashing across the abandoned road, and climbing gratefully inside.“Christ, you’re a sight for sore eyes.Didn’t realise it had snowed quite so much.”

“Yes well, we can’t have you getting sick next.It would ruin all my plans.”

“Speaking of which, wasn’t there supposed to be a case?”John reaches down and fastens his seatbelt as Sherlock slowly accelerates and carries on his way down the snowy road.

“Oh rest assured there is.A great mystery.I’m working on it as we speak, but our clients as snowed in as we are, John.”

“Mmm.How convenient.”He smiles and looks over at Sherlock, who is looking straight out the windscreen, focussing on the road, no doubt ignoring him.

It takes them a little while, but they do eventually make it to the village square, and the small shop that is supposed to be there.It’s closed.John sighs heavily.“Shit.I am not going all the way into Seaford.They’re likely to all be shut up too.What is it with the bloody country?!”

“It looks like the pub is open.Would you like to get some hot cocoa?”

John turns and stares at Sherlock like he’s grown a second head.“Hot cocoa?”

“Yeees…”

John huffs out a laugh into the icy air.“Jesus.Guess the country suits you at least.You’re getting downright domestic.Fine.Let’s go then.”

The pub owner looks happy to see them, as they knock the snow from their boots at the entrance, and enter the pub.“Good morning!Brave souls, you two are!”

“Yes well, we needed some things from the shop next door, but it seems to be closed.”

The owner, a rather large man with a bushy ginger beard, and sparkling blue eyes, nods.“Didn’t think anyone would be out and about this morning, so I didn’t bother.But I can open it up for you, if you need something.”

“We would be very grateful.”Sherlock replies.

“And can I get you two blokes anything to warm you?”

“Do you have hot cocoa?”

“On a day like this?Of course.Or hot cider if prefer.Hard or not.”

“Cocoa is fine,” John replies for them both, knowing that there is never going to be a time when Sherlock won’t pick chocolate when it is on offer.

“If you two gentleman will tell me what you need from the shop, I can get it for you while you’re enjoying your cocoa, and you can pay for all on your way out.”

“Ta.Very generous of you.”John hands him the list he’d hastily scribbled on the back of a napkin, and then takes up the two mugs of warm cocoa topped with a marshmallow and a peppermint stick and carries them over to one of the tables furthest from the door.There are only a few other patrons in the pub, all of them eating plates of English breakfast, so John assumes they are probably patrons of the inn upstairs, and haven’t tried to brave the snowy roads like he and Sherlock had been foolish enough to.

Sherlock wraps his hands around the warm mug the minute John hands it to him, and pulls out the peppermint stick, to pop it in his mouth.“I suppose there will be penance to pay for coming out in all this cold.”

John shrugs out of his coat, sits down, and takes a sip of his cocoa.It’s good.“Glad you came, actually.Missed you.”

Sherlock looks at him oddly for a moment, before dropping his eyes and smiling against the rim of his mug as he takes his first tentative sip.

“And it’s good to see you bundled up warm.”John nods toward the purple scarf he’d bought Sherlock the week before, the jumper he’s never seen before peaking out beneath, and the fact that Sherlock hasn’t taken his coat off even though they are now sitting in a warm pub.

“Yes, well, despite what you think I can follow orders.”

A smile teases the corner of John’s lips, and he laughs outright when he sees Sherlock roll his eyes with a slight flush to his cheeks that probably has nothing to do with the warmth of the pub.

They spend a companionable half hour chatting over their cocoa before they finally decide to go back out and brave the cold again, supplies in hand.There are a few other cars and a snow plow on the opposite side of the road on their way back, so it seems that the village is finally coming to life, just rather late in the day.

John lets Sherlock stoke the fire when they get back, while he goes into the kitchen, and sets out his supplies: flour, baking powder, butter, black currants.He has to root about in the cabinets for a few minutes to find a bowl and skillet, but by the time Sherlock comes back into the kitchen, inexplicably back in his pyjamas and John’s jumper, which John is seriously starting to suspect he is never getting back, he already has the batter well on it’s way.

Sherlock walks up behind him, wraps his arms around his waist, and sets his chin on John’s shoulder to look down at what he’s doing.“This was your grandmother’s recipe?”

“Yeah.My mum’s mum.She lived not far from here, actually.Near Brighton.There were a couple of years when we were little, when mum sent Harry and me away for the summer, and my Gran would make these for us, fresh and warm every afternoon, for our tea. 

“It’s a Welsh recipe.”Sherlock observes.

“Mm.Would be.Gran was Welsh.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement, and nuzzles the side of John’s neck.John grins.“None of that.I want to get these made.I’ll make you some tea to go with, if you like.”

“Tea’s boring.”

John chuckles.“What’s gotten into you, eh?”

“I could ask you the same.” 

John can hear the slight hurt in Sherlock’s voice, so he turns, reaches out, and pulls him close.“Wasn’t complaining.”

“Hm.”

“Wasn’t.It’s been nice.”

Sherlock’s cheeks are pink.“Yes.It has.”

“I’m happy to be with you.You know that right?Happy, grateful, kind of disbelieving sometimes, but grateful.”

“Are you?”Sherlock can’t look at him.John frowns, and reaches up for his face, tilts his chin down until he’s looking him in the eye again.“‘Course I am.Jesus, ‘course I am.You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Sherlock’s eyes fill.“I’ve often thought I was the worst.”

John shakes his head.“No.No, and if I’ve made you feel that way, then I’m sorry.I’ve been fucked up for a long time.You know that.I’m probably still fucked up, but being with you this last year…It’s been the best year of my life.I mean that.”He shakes his head.“Come here.”

Sherlock melts against him, when he pulls him close, tucking John’s head under his chin, and letting out a long, relieved sigh.John tightens his hold around Sherlock’s waist, and calms to the sound of his heart beating strong in his chest, and the sound of air flowing in and out of his lungs.

After a few minutes he pulls back.“Now, you going to help me with these teacakes, or at least let me finish them up?”

Sherlock smiles softly.“I suppose.”

“Well, good.Then measure me out a cup of currants, will you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in the recipe, it can be found here: [Welsh Tea Cakes](https://www.kingarthurflour.com/recipes/welsh-cakes-recipe). You can choose your measure type by selecting the appropriate radio button at the top of the recipe page, which is handy.
> 
> My mum got this recipe (or at least one that was almost exactly this) from her dad, who got it from his mum, and we used to have them a lot when I was a kid.


	14. Day 14 - Ice Skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 14 - Ice Skating**

“Do you see the man, just there, tying his skates by the oak.”John shivers at the sensation of Sherlock’s hot breath on the cold shell of his ear.“No, don’t look!” hissed, as John lifts his gaze.

John turns and scowls.“You just asked me if I saw.How’m I supposed to see, if I’m not looking?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs.He takes a deep breath before opening them again.“Just keep him in your sights.”

“What?Why?”

“He may be a suspect.”

“You brought me to this skating rink, to track a suspect?”

“Of course.”Sherlock grins and steps out onto the ice, circling the rink with a grace and ease that comes as no surprise, his coat sailing out behind him, scarf fluttering over one shoulder.He’s wrapped up warm, on John’s orders, and he had been feeling well enough today to spend some time on his hair.He looks fucking fantastic, and John isn’t the only one noticing.Some of the local ladies have noticed too.

John pulls a trouser leg down over his skate, gets to his feet, and pushes out onto the ice, praying that he remembers how to do this, that he won’t fall flat on his arse and embarrass himself in front of the local ladies he’s already had quite enough of.

The man Sherlock had mentioned is just getting onto the ice himself.He seems unassuming, a bit like a middle aged bookkeeper, but if John has learned one thing in all the years he’s been solving crimes with Sherlock, it’s that you never can tell about people.Looks can be deceiving.Angels turn out to be assassins.Accountants turn out to demons.

John sails by the man who seems rather unsteady on his feet, flips around to skate backwards and see how the man fares (he doesn’t fall), and then slides up beside Sherlock.“Well, he’s not the best skater.”

“An observation one cannot make about you.”Sherlock sounds impressed.

John grins.“What?I liked hockey as a boy.”

“Hockey?”

“Yeah, you know, the game with the puck and stick where you…”

“Yes, yes.Of course I know what hockey _is_ , but it’s hardly the most popular sport, and you’ve just—never mentioned it.”

“Yeah, well—maybe there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”John winks, and then skates a few circles around him, before forging on ahead and skating backwards again, which seems to impress Sherlock to no end.”

He’s starting to feel more confident now he’s out on the ice and finding his feet.Muscle memory, bringing it all back.“Thought you’d be pirouetting or something.”John grins.“What with all that dancing.”

“Yes, well.I’m considerably more sure of foot on a dance floor than a sea of ice.”

John falls back in step with Sherlock, skates close enough to be heard without being overheard.“So, what’s this bloke supposed to have done, hm?Just what am I looking for?”

Sherlock waves a hand.“Oh you know…Criminal—things.”

John smiles.“That right?”

“Mmm.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock looks down at him, eyes narrowing.“Why?”

“Why not?”

“You sound—amused.Rather more amused than you have any business being.”

John laughs outright at that.“So, I’m not allowed to be happy now?”

“No.I mean, yes.I just—you’re acting very odd.”

“And so are you.So you going to tell me what all this is really about, then?”

Sherlock sighs.“Just keep an eye on him John, and if he does anything suspicious let me know.”

“Fine.Okay.”

They spend another half hour at the rink in the middle of the village square, as their accountant continues to skate halting, boring circles around it, only stopping once to retie a skate lace. 

John finally grows weary of the pointless chase, and slides off the ice to untie his skates.The pub is open, and another cup of the excellent cocoa they had the other day sounds rather nice.

He goes in, says a bright good-afternoon to Charlie (the pub/inn keeper), and orders two hot cocoas to go.

“There’s better spots to skate than this, you know,” Charlie offers as he dresses their cups.“If you’re looking for something a little more private.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm, there’s a large pond, or small lake, depending who you ask, in the middle of Friston Woods.Lovely spot.Should be frozen given how cold it’s been.Rare year.Don’t remember it being like this since I was a boy.Anyway, you park at the trail head off East Dean Road, and follow it in about a 1/4 kilometre, and you should find it.Might be worth a look see.Mind you report back if it’s frozen.The locals like to know.Me included.”

“Mm.Might do.”John pays for their drinks, and then says his good-byes and heads in Sherlock’s direction.“You think they mind if we take these skates elsewhere, long as we have them back before five when they shut up shop?”

“I imagine so.”

“Well, too bad.”John winks at him.“I have a surprise.”He hands Sherlock one of the cups of cocoa.

“A surprise?”

“Yup.Get those skates off and bring them with.Let’s go.”

They sneak the skates back to their car like two guilty schoolboys and then John sets off in the direction suggested.It’s not easy to find; the trailhead is tucked away in the trees, but find it he does, and they are both soon on their way. 

The sun sets early this time of year, and John doesn’t really want to be caught in the woods in the cold come dark.They have about two hours all things considered, and he figures that’s enough time to find the lake, and have a proper skate if it has indeed frozen.

Sherlock has started to whinge a bit because John won’t tell him where they are going.“I suppose you’re taking me out here to murder me.”

John stares up at the bare tree branches joining and softly clicking above their heads in the soft breeze.“You have to admit, would be a lovely place to die.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just continues to follow in John’s wake, the blades of his skates clacking together, as he holds them by their laces, and lets them hang by his side.Finally the trees start to open up, and sure enough, there in the middle of the quiet woods, is a lake.

Someone has come and cleared a spot for skating, just that morning by the looks of it, which means it must be suitable to hold a person’s weight, but there is no one there now.“Is it safe, do you think?”And when Sherlock doesn’t reply, John turns to look at him.

“How did you know about this place?”

“Charlie told me about it when I went to get the cocoa.”

“Charlie?”

“The innkeeper.”

Sherlock’s mouth forms into an O of understanding.

“Thought it might be nice to have a little skate just you and I.You know, since our suspect didn’t seem to be doing anything all that criminal.”John winks, and Sherlock’s eyes flit away.

“Alright.”Sherlock moves to a nearby rock and sits down on it to don his skates, and John joins him, nudging him a little bit with his shoulder.

“Could maybe consider this a date, yeah?Never did get the chance to woo you.”

He sees a small smile tease at the corner of Sherlock’s lips.“Everything you did that first case wooed me.”

“Mmm, I’ll have to remember that.Anyone in this village I could kill to save you from your own arrogance, do you think?”

Sherlock chuckles.“I’ve told you.I knew it was the right bottle.”

“And I’ve told you, that I know you’re full of it.”John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s gloved hand, gives it a squeeze, just to make sure he understands that John’s words are the light-hearted banter he means them to be.“You ready?”

Sherlock nods, and they hobble across the snow to the water’s edge, and set off across the ice, hand-in-hand.It’s not as smooth a surface as the town rink, and John keeps an ear and eye peeled for signs of thin ice, but it’s quiet, and private, and he’s glad they came, because after a few circuits, Sherlock lets go of his hand, skates on ahead of him, and begins to make what look like little attempts at a pirouette.It means something to John, that Sherlock trusts him enough, finally, to let him see him make mistakes, let him see him fall, and help him back up again.

But he doesn’t fall.It seems his dance training is holding him in good stead, that his muscle memory is just as good as John’s, if not better, and after awhile he’s sailing around the ice with a smile of complete abandon and joy on his face, and John thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful.


	15. Day 15 - Wearing Victorian Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 15 - Wearing Victorian Clothes**
> 
> **Author's Note:** Please note that this chapter got a little sexy, and so I've raised the rating of the story from Mature to Explicit. If that or the added tags mentioned below are not your cup of tea, feel free to skip. I will always mention in the author's notes if a chapter is going to be explicit.
> 
>  **New Tags for this Chapter:** #Roleplay, #Sexual Roleplay, #Doctor/Patient Roleplay, #Victorian Roleplay, #Prostate Massage, #Prostate Orgasm

“I’m not wearing this.”John lifts the leg of the short, tweed trousers, and rubs it between his fingers.If feels itchy.“What is this, and where did you even get it?!”

“They're knickerbockers, John, and I got them at the National Theatre Costume Hire Store on Brixton Road.”

“You hired them and had them shipped here?”

“As you see.”

“Thought you said this Victorian murder mystery dinner thing was all last minute.Mr. accountant from the skating rink yesterday going to be there again?Am I ever going to meet our clients?Are you ever going to tell me what any of this is about?”

Sherlock sighs, and shrugs out of his t-shirt, before scooping the shirt that goes to his costume up off the bed.“It’s a luncheon not a dinner, he’s not an accountant, and don’t be boring.”

“Right.”John sniffs, and looks down at the knickerbockers with a frown.“Why are mine so short?”

They didn’t have trousers in your length, and there wasn’t time to get any hemmed.This was the easiest alternative.It’s perfectly acceptable hunting wear for the period, in keeping with the theme of the mystery, and I’m sure you’ll look very…”John arches a brow in question.“You’ll look fine, John.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit away as he turns his back to John with a flourish, and goes back to attending to his fancy dress. 

John watches him with a smile.He’d never have guessed Sherlock to be one keen on role play, but there had been a definite flush to his cheeks when he turned away, and John feels sudden motivation to get into his costume as quickly as possible and see what effect it might have.

He manages to get into most of it, with the exception of his spats, which look like they require some sort of special magic to fasten, and so, he decides, there is no better time than the present to test out his hypothesis.

“Could use some help with these.There some special way to fasten them?”

“There’s a button hook on my nightstand by the bed,” Sherlock calls across the hall from the loo.

“Not sure I know how to use it.You’d better come here and give me a hand.”

“Yes.Fine.Hold on.”

After a few more minutes of things clattering against the vanity in the loo, Sherlock reappears in doorway to the bedroom.“Alright fine, I’ll help, but really John it’s quite easy to…”

He stops short the minute he sees John in his full Victorian hunting kit.Lips parting, he just stares.

“Maybe you want to breathe?”John suggests.

Sherlock nods, and then must register what’s just come out of John’s mouth, because he sucks in a giant breath, and then coughs a couple of times before striding into the room, snatching the small metal hook from off of his nightstand, and dropping to his knees at John’s feet.

John stares down at him amazed, and more than a little amused.Sherlock’s cheeks are scarlet red, and his hands are shaking as he attempts to work the small buttons into place. 

Well then.

“Here, you feeling ill again, because we don’t have to do this, if…”

“I’m fine.”It comes out somewhat strangled.

“You sure, because you look a little feverish.”John can’t help the smile that comes to his lips.

And Sherlock must hear it, because his face goes even more scarlet.“Oh do shut up, John.”

It’s a much harsher tone than warranted by the bit of fun John thought they were having.Sherlock’s finished the last of his buttons now, and so John gets down on his knees beside him.“Sorry.Was just teasing.”

Sherlock turns his face away, stares down at the floor, the wall, the nightstand, anywhere but at John’s face.This is one of those situations that John usually handles so poorly, but he’s been trying, with Ella’s help he’s been trying, and he doesn’t want to get this wrong, because after the other day at pond it had seemed that Sherlock was just starting to trust him, and he doesn’t want to ruin that, not now, not when it’s been such a long time coming, and is still so tenuous a thing.

“Hey…”

Sherlock moves to get up, but John reaches out and lays a hand on his wool-clad thigh.“You look nice.I like it.I like that you like me in it, and if you’d like to get all kitted out like this again sometime, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

John shrugs, fighting hard not to rise to the bait of Sherlock’s tone.He’s just embarrassed, embarrassed by what he likes, embarrassed by what turns him on.It’s all new to him, John reminds himself, and hasn’t John been right where Sherlock is before, and hasn’t he been shamed and embarrassed for it, and didn’t he swear he’d never do that to someone he cared about.He decides to take a different tack.

“Well Holmes, shall we be off then.I’m quite sure there is murder afoot.The game is on, my man.”He tries in his best facsimile of a Victorian gentleman.He’s probably making a right mess of it, but he figures he’s sat through enough period pieces on the BBC with girlfriends past, to at least make a passing attempt.

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and he looks at him quizzically.John grins.“It would never do to keep our client waiting.I dare say they’d be quite put out.”

A small wrinkle forms between Sherlock’s brows.“What are you doing.”

“What are you doing, Holmes?That’s more the question.Late.We’re going to be late.Now, shall I hail us a hansom cab?”

Sherlock swallows and blinks.“No.I’ve borrowed a carriage from my brother.We’ll be driving ourselves to the Leonides’ this afternoon.”

“Well then, up you come.It wouldn’t do to be late.”John gets to his feet and reaches out a hand, which Sherlock takes. 

When he’s standing again, John smoothes his hands down Sherlock’s lapels, straightens his collar.“I say, you look quite smart, Holmes.I’ll be warding off young ladies all afternoon, I wager.I do hate these sorts of things, and so do you, and yet you keep insisting we meet clients at these social affairs.You know I’d much rather stay here with you, and…”John slides a finger suggestively down the front of Sherlock’s waistcoat, and watches him shiver.

“I—I…”Sherlock swallows.“We really should go.”

John grins a little suggestively and takes a step closer, close enough to feel the fact that Sherlock wouldn’t need much persuading to stay right where he is.“Are you quite sure.You look a little feverish.Perhaps you should get back into bed and let me examine you.It wouldn’t due for you to get ill in the damp of winter, Holmes.It could go to your lungs in no time, and you know your constitution has been rather weak this past autumn.”

“John, I…”

“Yes.I think you’d best sit down and let me examine you.Just there, on the side of the bed if you will.”And when Sherlock backs up, and plops down, wordlessly.“There’s a good man.”

John removes his hat, and sets it on the nightstand.“I’m afraid I’ve left my medical bag at my surgery, but we’ll do what we can, yes?Remove your jacket and waistcoat, and unbutton your shirt.”

Sherlock just sits, frozen, and stares, the bulge in the front of his trousers straining so much it almost looks uncomfortable.John hasn’t acknowledged it yet, but he will.He sighs in faux frustration.“Must I do everything for you, Holmes?Really.”He steps forward and slides his jacket over his shoulders, laying it on the end of the bed, before starting to unbutton his waistcoat.“You’ve been going out without a scarf again, I see.Really, you are the most exasperating patient.”

Sherlock lets John remove his waistcoat, and unbutton his shirt.John looks around, and eyes the small, empty water glass on the nightstand.He scoops it up.“I’ve not got my stethoscope, but this will do.He leans over and presses it against Sherlock’s back, through his shirt, leans further down and presses his ear to the top.“Now breathe for me.Deep in and out.”He moves the glass to the other side.“And again.There’s a good man.”

“And now your chest, if you please.” 

Sherlock obediently parts the unfastened placket of his shirt with one finger, allowing John access, and John leans down, presses the cup over his heart, and leans down to listen.Sherlock’s heart is racing like a small, frightened bird, and John worries sometimes, when they are together, when they are intimate, if Sherlock’s heart really should be undergoing so much stress and strain.The doctors have cleared him, and their diagnosis seems sound, but it’s still something John worries about none-the-less.

“Good-heavens, Holmes.Your nerves.They’re quite agitated.You really must allow me to treat you.”

“If you deem it necessary.”Sherlock somehow manages.

“I do.Though—it is a rather experimental course of treatment.Quite new.It may seem shocking to you.Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”Sherlock whispers, and John is suddenly and unexpectedly moved.

“Good.”He whispers back.“It can be quite pleasant, but also overwhelming.You must promise to tell me if it becomes too much, and we will stop at once.”

Sherlock just nods.

“There’s my good man.Remove your trousers, if you will, and then lay down, make yourself comfortable.We’ll take our time.”

Sherlock’s cheeks are flaming again, but he does as he’s told, lays down in only his pants, the usual silky blue ones he’s been favouring lately.It’s the contrast of the skin hugging modernity against the proper, buttoned up Victorian tweed that finally does it for John, and he decides to get out of his own trousers too, before they start to become uncomfortable.

“You don’t mind if I make myself comfortable as well?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and John smiles, struggles with his spats and boots, and finally gets out of his trousers and coat, tossing them across the room in frustration.He keeps his shirt and pants.Sherlock is still watching him, lids heavy, chest flushed beneath the thin cotton of his parted shirt, cock twitching and throbbing beneath the thin fabric of his pants.

Properly divested and comfortable, John walks back over to the bed, and traces a finger over the fabric of Sherlock’s pants.He avoids his cock, but it’s close enough to be an aching tease, and he sees Sherlock subconsciously rock his hips upward, seeking more touch.

“Good heavens, Holmes.These are rather fine.French are they?”

“For heaven’s sake, Watson.Begin your treatment.”He groans.

John smiles, pleased Sherlock is still on board with their little fantasy.It’s been years since he’s done anything like this, and it’s becoming rather fun.“Patience.If you’re going to be impertinent, I’ll have no choice but to put it off until another day.”

“No!I’ll be good.”The words seem to shock them both.Sherlock’s cheeks flare like he’s just exposed too much, and John just blinks, and files it all away for later consideration.

“Excellent.Let’s begin then, shall we.”

“Yes.”Sherlock breathes.

“We’ll start with massage.”John returns to his overnight bag, and pulls out the little bottle of massage oil he’s glad he thought to pack.You are holding a great deal of tension in your abdomen, thighs and groin, Holmes.The proper application of massage to these areas can help to relieve that tension.I will start with your thighs.Do try to relax.”

Sherlock shivers, his eyes sliding shut with a sigh, and John wastes no time in dispensing a little of the oil, rubbing it between his palms to warm it, and then sliding his hands slowly up Sherlock’s thighs, starting at his knees, and gliding upwards, the inside of the thumbs tracing along the most sensitive of spots.

Sherlock’s breath catches and then quickens.

“Ah, you see, I was right.So much tension.No fear, Holmes.We’ll work it out.You’re in good hands.”

“Yes…I—I’ve no doubt.”Sherlock pants.

John continues his ministrations until a small wet spot begins to form at the front of Sherlock’s pants, and Sherlock is all but trembling.“You are much more resistant to the releasing of tension than I anticipated, Holmes.I do believe I may need to take things a step further.Do I have your permission.

“Of course.Anything.Please.”

And it’s that please that sends fire racing through John’s veins.He reaches down and palms himself through the front of his pants, fighting back the need to climb Sherlock like a tree and rut against him until he finds his own release.

Sherlock’s eyes are on his movements.He licks his lips, and then looks up at John, eyes desperate and hungry.“You seem rather tense yourself, Doctor.”

“Yes, well, the Christmas season is always busy at the surgery, you know that, Holmes.”

“Doctor heal thyself?”

John smiles and huffs.“Patience.You first.”

He slides one hand up Sherlock’s hip and and then pushes one fingertip beneath the waistband of his pants and hesitates.“If I may?”

Sherlock nods, and John slides a hand inside, presses his palm firm, and warm against Sherlock’s trembling abdomen, thrills at the sensation Sherlock’s cock brushing against his the back of his hand.He goes back to stroking his thigh with the other, and Sherlock moans, and arches upward.

“Good.That’s good.Well done.Do you feel the tension coiling tight here?”John traces his thumb over Sherlock’s abdomen.“I can feel it, and I want you to try and let it go.”

He feels Sherlock’s muscles pull taut beneath his hand.“Yes, just there.That’s a good man.”John slides the hand at Sherlock’s thigh a little higher.“Spread your legs for me.”Sherlock does, and John slides his hand further still, slips a finger back behind Sherlock’s balls, and waits.

“Your doing remarkably well, Holmes.I do believe this next method will do the trick.Do I have your permission?”

“God yes, John.Get on with it!”

John chuckles, and rubs a finger over Sherlock’s perineum until he finds just the spot he’s looking for.He presses, sees Sherlock’s eyes go wide, pupils dilate with pleasure.And so John begins to massage, firm but gentle strokes, and it isn’t long before Sherlock’s mouth falls open with a long moan that breaks off into a series of desperate whines, and he starts to come, and come, and come.

John thinks that maybe he could come just from watching Sherlock’s face, shocked at how much pleasure he’s feeling, experiencing a prostate orgasm for the first time.There’s little to no ejaculation, which is good.He’ll come again in just a few minutes, and John hopes that maybe they can come together, but for now he’s willing to string Sherlock’s pleasure out as long as he can bear it.

When Sherlock is trembling all over, and practically keening, John decides to let up a little.He removes his hand, slides it comfortingly up and down Sherlock’s thigh, and then lays down on the bed beside him, and pulls him close.“Remarkable.Truly.Well done.”

Sherlock is panting, but he rolls into John’s arms eagerly, smearing his lips against John’s neck, hands scrambling around and behind to grasp John’s arse and pull him close.“I love you.I love you.”He breathes raggedly against John’s ear.

John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.“I love you too.”

Sherlock pulls back, cheeks hot, eyes glazed.“Again.”

John chuckles.“Already?”

“From the inside.”

John blinks. 

They’ve never done that before.Truth be told, he wasn’t even sure if it was something Sherlock was into, and so it surprises him now, here, out of the blue.“Are you sure?”

Sherlock nods, looking suddenly incredibly vulnerable.“Unless you—you’d prefer not.”

“You want my finger in there, or…?”

“I want you inside me.”

“Sherlock…”

“But not if you don’t…”

“No.I’m not saying that.I’m not saying ‘no’, I just.I want you to be sure.”

“Please.”

John smiles.“Life’s never boring with you, Holmes.”

“Not like that anymore.You.Just you.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods.

“Yeah, okay.But, do you have any…?”

Sherlock just shakes his head.

“Condoms.Did you bring condoms?”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, and then he frowns.“We don’t need them.”

“Oh yes, we do.And that’s me putting my foot down.”

“Boring.”It’s almost a whinge.

“Safe.”

Sherlock huffs and John laughs, and pulls him into his arms.“I’ll get some at the shops tomorrow.”

“People will talk,” Sherlock pouts.And there it is, the thing that still hangs between them sometimes, even now. 

John pulls him closer still.“People do little else.”He presses a kiss into Sherlock’s curls and feels Sherlock’s breath puff against his neck.“So what do you think, should we still try to make it to this murder mystery thing?”

“I’d rather stay here.”Sherlock murmurs into his shoulder.

“Me too.”

“Besides,”John hears the playfulness come back to Sherlock’s voice.“I’m not sure you’ve adequately completed your treatment protocol, Doctor.”

He pulls back and looks up, and John smiles down at him, with a wink.“Quite right, Holmes.Quite right."


	16. Day 16 - Countryside Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 16 - Countryside Charm**

John sits back in his chair, and admires the sight of Sherlock gobbling down the rather substantial breakfast he’d made them.It’s not like Sherlock to have that sort of appetite, and there had been nightmares in the night, again, that had left him shivering and exhausted.Usually that results in no appetite for at least a day afterwards, but not this morning, apparently.

“Think you’re feeling better.”

“Mmm.Must be the country air.”

John just smiles and takes another sip of his coffee.“You feel up for a walk after we’re done eating.Want to show you something.”

“Yes.It seems rather fine out.I think the snow will be all gone by this evening.”Sherlock spreads a piece of toast liberally with honey, and takes a bite.

“And maybe afterwards we can go into the Boots in Eastbourne?”John suggests.

He watches the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirk upwards.“Mm.”

“I mean if we don’t have to meet up with our client…”John adds, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice. 

There clearly is no client, and he’s fairly certain Sherlock knows he knows, and he’s curious as to just how long Sherlock is going to attempt to carry on with his light-hearted, little deception before he confesses to the truth—that this was simply a holiday to the country, just the two of them, a little time away for god knows what reason. 

But it’s become a bit of an enjoyable, unspoken joke and secret between them the last few days, and John isn’t too anxious to give it all up just yet.

Sherlock takes a sip of tea.“The clients can wait.”

“Good.”

* * *

The day does indeed prove to be fine.The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the snow is melting.It almost feels like spring, and the little slips of green in the ditches, and along the hedgerows seem just as confused as the birds. 

They take their time strolling down the country lanes, hand-in-hand when they find some of the more secluded trails through the nearby woods.There is no need for words, and John thinks as he walks, and breathes deep of the fresh, salt-tinged air, and feels the sun on his face, and listens to the birdsong in the trees around them, that he hasn’t felt this relaxed in years—maybe ever.Leave it to Sherlock to plan some totally mad, out of the blue country cottage holiday, to wrap it in the guise of a case, because he knew it would mean John would be more likely to come, and to be perfectly, one hundred percent right in knowing just exactly what it was that John needed.

Sherlock’s stopped now, and is stooping at the side of the path, poking about in the mud and slush with a single finger.He turns and looks up at him.“Look John, galanthus nivalis.”

John just shakes his head, and Sherlock sighs.“Snowdrops.But it’s far too early.”He squints up at the bright blue sky, shiny through the tree canopy in patches.“Too early by far.Pity.Everything seems quite confused.I confess I’d not been this far from the city in the winter since I as a boy.Everything’s changed…The seasons are all wrong.Lovely though, isn’t it.”

John smiles, thinking that he can think of something even more lovely sitting right beside it.“Yeah, sad it’s unlikely to survive, though.”

“Ah well, that’s our doing, not nature’s I imagine.The sad reality of a changing climate.”He sits back on his heels.“Though, I never can quite manage to wholly despair when I consider the flowers, can you?They’re so extra in every way.It makes me think, in weaker moments, that perhaps there is some perfect order to everything after all, some master plan, some universal goodness…”

“Getting a bit philosophical in your old age, I see.”

Sherlock frowns.“I’m only 42, John.”

John laughs outright at that, and holds out a hand, which Sherlock takes with a smile.“Let’s loop round and head back to the cottage, yeah.I have someone I want you to meet.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward, but follows along anyway. 

They emerge from the woods beside Friston Hill Road, and follow it back to St. Mary’s Church, where they turn back onto their own lane, and head back toward the cottage.

John can see the sheep grazing in the field beside the lane, and sure enough, when they see him, they begin to trot toward the fence.John stops and waits for them to come over, and then reaches through to pet one head after another, while they nuzzle and lip at his pockets.

“You’ve been feeding them.”Sherlock sounds amused as he reaches down to pet one that seems particularly interested in his buttons.

“I have not.”

“Well, someone has.Is this who you brought me to meet?”

“Yup.”

“Excellent choice.For a moment I was afraid it was going to be the Vicar.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”John winks.

“One of the many reasons I love you.”

John feels his cheeks warm at the comment.It’s little moments like these, where the words drop so easily and casually from Sherlock’s lips, that still take him by surprise, and please him to no end.There had been years where he could only dream of it, a secret fantasy he was hardly even willing to admit to himself and now, here they are, and here is Sherlock telling him he loves him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

John straightens up, reaches out, takes the collar of Sherlock’s coat in his hand, and pulls him into a kiss.He can feel the shock ripple through Sherlock’s body, for a moment, but then he relaxes again, melts into it, and lets John explore his mouth, slow, and sweet and lazy, before he pulls back again with a smile.

“The country air seems to suit you,” he murmurs.

John smiles.“I’m sure we’ve just scandalised the sheep.”

“And the sheep will tell the birds, and the birds will tell the bees, and the bees will whisper it to all the local beekeepers, and soon the word will be out: the gays are back at Honey Hill Cottage.”

John laughs out loud.“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“It’s what it’s called.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm…”

“Didn’t know that.Well, the locals can relax, because the gays are only back until next weekend.We really should get back to Ro.You think we’ll have this case wrapped up by then.”

“I’m quite sure.”

They give the sheep a last pat and then turn and head back down the lane toward the cottage.“You know,” John says.“I’m going to miss this place.Maybe we could let it again in the summer.Bring Ro to the beach in Seaford.Do Brighton for the day.”

“I can’t see why not.”

John looks up and squints into the sun shining over Sherlock’s shoulder.“Yeah?Well good.Let’s set a date when we get home.I imagine these cottages let way in advance in the summer months.”

They turn into the gravel drive, and Sherlock stops to open the gate to the back garden for John, before turning and pulling him into another kiss.It’s deeper than the one they shared on the road, and Sherlock’s leather gloved hands sneak up under the hem of John’s coat and jumper to splay across his bare back, giving him a thrill.

When he finally pulls back to stare down at him again, John is breathless, and can feel the warmth infusing his cheeks.

“This place seems to suit you.”Sherlock murmurs.“You’re getting your colour back.”

“Didn’t know I’d lost it.”

“You had.It was mostly my fault, I imagine, but it’s back now.”

“Wasn’t your fault.I’ve told you that.”

“Partially my fault.”

“Partially a lot of things.”

“What things.”

John takes a deep breath.“My marriage.Your death.My injury.Basic Training.Med school.My Dad.And those are just a few.Mostly my unwillingness to acknowledge any of it.”He doesn’t know why he’s telling Sherlock all of this now.Maybe Sherlock’s right, maybe there is something about the place that sets him right.

Sherlock pulls him back into his arms, and tucks John’s head under his chin.“Well, it’s good to see you happy,” He murmurs into John’s hair.

And he is, John realises.For the first time in years, he is truly, artlessly, blissfully happy.


	17. Day 17 - Deck the Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 17 - Deck the Halls**

“What do you think of this?”John holds up the plastic, holly garland hanging from a hook in the one tiny aisle the Eastbourne Boots has dedicated to Christmas decorations.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose.“Hideous.”

John sighs.“Just miss putting things up, I guess.”

“When we get home, we can hunt through the attic, if you like.Perhaps the resident gentlemen before us had your penchant for holiday frippery.”

“Mm, maybe.Going to get this, though.”He holds up the chocolate orange he’d just found in the last aisle and tucked under his arm without Sherlock seeing.“Seem to remember someone in our house liking these.”

“Yes, you’re quite clever when you want to be, John.Well done.”Sherlock winks, and then strolls down the aisle, absently trailing his fingers through the cards of tinsel hanging on hooks beside him.

John follows in his wake, and only realises, after it’s too late, that Sherlock is headed straight for the condoms.He freezes for a moment, instinct to turn and run, but then he ends up hurrying to catch up anyway, because who knows what mayhem Sherlock might cause.

By the time John turns down the aisle in question, Sherlock is already standing in front of the multicoloured display, arms crossed over his chest, considering his options.

“Will we need some for me as well, do you think?You’ll definitely need the larger size.”

The only other person in the aisle, a ginger-haired man in his late thirties, looks back and forth between the two of them, scowls, and walks off.John sighs.“Probably not the place to be discussing that.Just—lets get some of both and we can decide later.”

“Hmm…”Sherlock reaches out for a box, and flips it over to read the back, just as a teenage boy turns down the opposite end of the aisle, sees them both, and scurries off again.“Do you think these really do allow for more sensation, because I really do want you to…”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” John hisses.“Just put them in the bloody basket, and let’s go.”

Sherlock turns to him, brow knit, and then seems to read everything he needs to see in John’s tense body language, white-knuckled fists and flaming cheeks.“Oh.I’ll just get some lube, then, shall I.”He grabs his preferred brand off the shelf, tosses it in the basket with the two boxes of condoms, and then takes the other items from John’s hands and puts them in the basket as well.“Wait outside, if you like.I’ll pay.”And then he’s gone.

And John feels a twit.An absolutely twit, twat, insensitive, cowardly, pain in the arse… 

He does go outside, mills around like a guilty teenager waiting for the lads to bring out the beer they’d just bought with a false ID, and he’s practically fifty years old, for fucks sake.Nearly fifty and a right wanker, who’s still too embarrassed to buy condoms with his boyfriend, and sometimes he hates himself so much he just wants to…

“Let’s go then.”Sherlock appears at his side, and John follows along like a kicked puppy, not even feeling as though he has a right to walk beside him, remembering all the reasons why Sherlock is better off without him, wondering why he’d even thought, for one moment that Sherlock would ever even consider…

“Would you like a coffee?”

“What?”

Sherlock nods toward the small cafe two doors down from the Boots.“Coffee?”

“No, I—I’m fine.”

“Alright.”

It’s quiet in the car on their way back to Friston.John’s leg hurts, and he feels like he’s getting a headache, and he just wishes that…

John’s eyes snap down to his thigh when Sherlock reaches out and lays his hand on it. He looks down at Sherlock’s hand resting large and warm over exactly the spot that aches, and then up at his face.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upward in a fond smile before he turns his attention back to the road ahead.“You’re worrying.Don’t.”

“‘M not.”

“About what happened back at the chemists.It was fine.I was rather—forthright.It made you uncomfortable.It’s fine.I’ll keep it in mind for the next time.”

“I’m old enough to not be embarrassed about buying condoms.I’ve bought loads of condoms.”

“But not with a man you plan to have sex with.”Sherlock just says it, like it’s nothing, like it’s not John being the coward he knows he is, like it’s not John hurting him, over, and over, and over again, not being the sort of man that Sherlock deserves, not being…

“It’s bothering you more than it bothered me, John.Besides, in retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have been openly discussing the size of your cock in the middle of Boots.”

John barks out a laugh, and only then realises he’s crying.

Sherlock gives his thigh a squeeze, but keeps his attention on the road, allowing him a moment to master himself.John stares out the window at the countryside racing by, all brown, now the snow has melted, with little patches of green here and there.He wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, and rests his head against the glass.“With the man I’m in love with—just so you know.”

“Mmm?”

“It’s not just sex, when we’re together like that, like the other night.”John turns and looks over at Sherlock, whose eyes dart over to his for brief moment and then return to the road.“You know that, yeah?You’re the only person I’ve ever felt known by.You’re everything to me.”

He sees Sherlock swallow, and blink.He nods.“As you are to me.”

They’ve reached St. Mary’s now, and they turn onto the lane home.Sherlock’s hand is still on John’s thigh, and John wonders how in the name of all that is holy someone like him managed to get so bloody lucky.

* * *

“What’s in those boxes there?”

“Where?”

“Just there, beside that dresser.”Sherlock is standing at the entrance to the rather vast and draughty attic in his dressing gown over his clothes, and bare feet, nibbling delicately at the corner of a piece of chocolate orange, while he orders John about like his own personal valet.

John sighs loud enough to be heard across the several meters that separate them.“You know, you could put some bloody slippers on and come help me.”

“You’re the one who wanted to decorate, John.I’m only here for moral support.”

“Yeah, well I’m not really feeling all that supported.”

“Because you’re not looking where I tell you.”

“I am!I’m looking at the bloody boxes, and there’s nothing here but…Oh.”John frowns at the boxes just behind the boxes Sherlock had been pointing at, all of which are labeled ‘CHRISTMAS’ in neat, block letters.

“Lucky guess.”He mutters.

“I never…”

“I know.I know.You never guess.Now go get some slippers on, so you can help me carry all this downstairs.”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to sigh.He flounces out the door.“You’re lucky I love you so much,” called over his shoulder as he clatters down the steps to the first floor, and their bedroom.He reappears a few moments later, slipper-clad, and dutifully accepts a few boxes.

After two more trips they manage to get the majority of what is in the attic down to the ground floor, and Sherlock tosses off his dressing gown flops back on the sofa in the jeans and jumper he had on underneath with much more melodrama than is strictly necessary, John thinks.

“Enough Christmas for me.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”John frowns, reaches down and throws the rainbow afghan draped over the sofa’s arm over Sherlock’s head, as he walks past.

When Sherlock rips it away with a scowl, it sends his curls into a riotous flurry, and John smiles.“You look gorgeous.”

“And you look like a man who is about to force me into slave labour right at the festive season.This isn’t Dickens, you know.”

John laughs.“Not slave labour if you’re getting paid.”He winks, and then turns and starts to root through the first of the boxes.

After a few seconds, Sherlock sidles up beside him, never one able to resist his own sense of curiosity.“Oh look!”John holds up the holly garland.A late nineties silk affair, by the look of it, but still much nicer than the plastic one they’d seen in town.

“Mm, success already.Apparently James shared your taste in tacky holiday trim.”

“How do you know it was James?”

“William would have had more sense, and more aesthetic instinct.You’ve seen his paintings.”

“Wasn’t James the one off designing gardens for a living?”

“Tending them I believe.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Why are we arguing over the aesthetic sensibilities of what are presumably two very dead men?”

“Because you were projecting, and because we’re both daft that way.”John grins, and hands the garland to Sherlock.“Go put this on that chair over there.I think I want to hang it up on the window sill in a bit.”

“Why are we decorating when we’re leaving in four days?”

“Because I feel like it.Besides, we don’t have to take them down again.It’s likely they’ve got someone letting it right after us this time of year, and they’re probably city people who just have a service cleaning it between tenants.Those who let it over the next few weeks will assume the owners decorated for them, and by the time the owners figure it out, they won’t have a clue which of their many lodgers were the ones who put it all up.”

Sherlock chuckles.“You’re rude and awful, and I love you.”

John just smiles and dives back into the box.There is a little porcelain creche, and fairy lights, some of which still work.There is a faux pine wreath for the front door, with a slightly moth-eaten velvet ribbon, that John insists on hanging anyway.There is a motley assortment of tree ornaments, some of which John is almost certain must have had sentimental value, and there are a good selection of Christmas albums on vinyl, some Classical, some War Era. 

“Did you see a turntable up there?”

“No, but there’s one in the bedroom at the back of the wardrobe.”Sherlock smiles when John’s face no doubt lights up.“I’ll go get it,” he offers.

John thumbs through the collection.Carols by King’s College Cambridge boys choir, some Tchaikovsky, some Bing Crosby.He pulls out the Crosby, just as Sherlock returns with the turntable and a small set of speakers and sets them down on the coffee table.

“Put this on, will you.”John hands him the record, and then picks up the garland, and goes over to the lounge window to consider how he might hang it.When he gets there he realises that there are already small hooks screwed into the frame, perhaps for precisely this purpose.But for whatever reason, it’s just made his job all that much easier.

He’s just finished getting it arranged to his satisfaction when he hears a crackle from the record player, and Sherlock joins him by the window as the first, soft strains of ‘White Christmas’ fill the room.

“No white Christmas this year, it seems.”John stares out the window into the cold, clear night.He can see the glowing dots of the neighbouring house’s lights far across the moonlit lawn.

“They say we may get snow again.”

“Hopefully not before we leave?Wouldn’t want to get snowed in.Ro would never forgive us.”

“Unlikely.”

“Mm.”

John reaches down and takes Sherlock’s hand.“Was a good idea coming here.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah.”He gives Sherlock’s hand a squeeze.“There isn’t a case, is there…”

Sherlock is quiet for a long time, until finally.“I wasn’t sure you would come if there wasn’t.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, okay.We should—talk about those things.And I know I’ve not always made that easy, but I’m trying, and I’d rather you be honest.”

“Alright.”It’s barely a whisper, which somehow seems appropriate given the hushed atmosphere, the pale, glowing silence outside.

John turns, hooks a finger through one of Sherlock’s belt loops and pulls him close.“I needed a holiday.You were right in that.And it’s been amazing.”And when Sherlock only stares down at the floor.“I’m not angry.”

Sherlock looks up, and John smiles.“Dance with me?”

“What?”

“Here.Now.Dance with me.”

Bing Crosby is singing ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’, and Sherlock lets John take his hand, wrap an arm around his waist, and dance slowly in front of the window, looking out over the lawn.And John can read so much in his eyes, so much that is unsaid, all the hurt, and all the struggle and all the unwavering love that got them both to this point, and when it becomes too much, he rests his head against Sherlock’s chest, and listens to the sound of his heart beating, strong and even, save for the tiny murmur caused by an assassin’s bullet, and he holds on tighter still, because they are living a future they were never supposed to get, and he knows now, with a certainty so clear it seems to ring through every cell.He wants to milk every last drop of living and loving out of this life they share, for as long as they both shall live.


	18. Day 18 - Napping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day 18 - Napping**

“Stay.”Sherlock reaches out, grabs onto the hem of John’s jumper and pulls him back toward the bed.

“Maybe I’m not tired.”

“Maybe I’m not either.”

John hums, and nods with a smile.“You can hardly keep your eyes open.The mind may be willing, but the flesh is weak.”

“Stay anyway?”

And of course John does, because how can he say no.Besides, it’s gotten rather cold out, and the sun will be down soon, and he has the sort of lethargy one gets after a very busy day is followed by a very lazy one.

The cottage had been decorated, top to bottom, the day before, and they had both collapsed onto the sofa after dark, and shovelled down a couple of bowls of tinned stew, and some bread that John had warmed in the oven, before falling asleep together on the sofa.

This morning they had awoken to stiff necks, and sore backs, and had lazed about reading in front of the fire for hours, before bundling up and poking about the back garden.Sherlock had clucked like a mother hen over the sad state of the beehives, and John had laughed, and said that he could get some of his own for the roof of 221b if he was so keen.

But now the daylight is waning, and even though it’s early it seems there really is nothing to be done but to nap.

John crawls into bed and pulls Sherlock into his arms.“Better?”

“Much.”

John cards a hand through Sherlock’s curls, still a little awed that he is allowed.Everything this past year has seemed a miracle and privilege, but this most of all—getting to touch Sherlock whenever he wants.

The first few times they’d come together Sherlock had seemed equal parts hungry for and afraid of John’s touch.Touch had never been something he’d pursued.Soon after their first fumbling attempts at physical intimacy, he had started following John around the flat like a puppy whenever he was home, brushing up against him, in what John is sure he thought were subtle and innocuous ways, but which had irritated John to no end, furtive as they were, especially after busy days at the surgery. 

John had ended up snapping, and there’d been a row, which had involved Sherlock slinking off into a corner to sulk, and John grumping around the flat, confused and irritated for two days, before Mrs. Hudson had told them both that they were completely nutters, and that she wasn’t going to see them fall apart when they’d barely started, so they’d better pull their oversized heads out of their too-tight arses, and talk about it.

And they’d tried.And it had been awkward as hell.And John had hated every moment of it.But it had achieved something in the end.They’d learned to tell one another—haltingly—when they needed space. 

It had taken longer for them to learn to ask for nearness.

In the beginning John was unsure of how to navigate all the day-to-day logistics of a long term, committed relationship.He’d never been in one.Even his marriage had fallen apart almost before it began.He didn’t know how to recognise the fact that Sherlock was touch starved.He didn’t even recognise when he, himself, craved touch that wasn’t sex.He definitely didn’t know how to ask for it.

It was Sherlock who had broken that ice first, when he had asked nervously, one night, cheeks flaming, if John would touch him, and when John had responded with his usual flirtatious banter, Sherlock’s cheeks had flamed brighter still, and he had shaken his head, and replied in less than a whisper.“No.Not like that.Just—touch.”

And it had started something new.It had started what they would come to see as their routine: kisses when they woke, kisses when either of them left the flat or came back, kisses goodnight, touches to the arm, the shoulder, the waist, hugs in the kitchen, a pet to the head in the lounge, and occasionally, if they both woke in the middle of the night, hard and aching, soft, fumbling moans in the dark, where they would frot against one another, hands and lips everywhere, until the tide of pleasure swept over them both, and they fell back asleep, sated and messy.

Their more erotic explorations the last couple of weeks have been something altogether new, and John is still trying to adapt to the idea that they might be branching into new territory, and so this familiar coming together is a comfort of a kind.

“Missed this.Missed you.Sorry I’ve been so busy with work.”

“It’s fine.”Sherlock whispers against his neck, but it’s not really, John thinks.It’s not at all.

“Just want to pull my weight, you know, and I know we got good money from that case back in June, but it’s almost gone now, and I thought with the extra hours at the surgery I could…”

“I’ve told you to stop worrying about money.”

“One of us has to.”

“No.We’re fine.”

“We’re not, actually.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, sighs.“There’s other money.So stop worrying.”

John pulls back and props himself up on one elbow.“What other money?”

“Just—other money.”

“What other money?”John can hear the tension in his tone.He takes a deep breath.

“Family money.”

“Family?”

“Not from my brother.Not handouts.It’s not like that.”Sherlock’s eyes drop.

“I didn’t think that.”John moderates his tone even further.“Just tell me.”

“My grandmother.She left a decent sum.It wasn’t to be dispersed to me until I was forty.She said she wanted me to build a life for myself, first, and it was meant to ease my way into my retirement.”

“And were you going to tell me about this?”

“I just did.”

John nods.“Yeah.Okay.Well, that’s good.You’re taken care of, but I still have to support me and Rosie, and…”

“John.”

John sniffs.“What?”

“It’s our money.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“So, what?You keeping me now?”

“I certainly hope so.”Sherlock reaches for him, but he pulls away.

“You know what I mean.”

“I thought you would be relieved.You don’t need to work as much if you don’t want to.You can spend more time with me and Rosie.I know I should have told you ages, ago, but I…”

“Oh, so now I’m not spending enough time with you?Shite dad.Shite boyfriend, is it?”

Sherlock’s brow knits.“No.”It’s barely a whisper.

John sits up, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.Takes a deep breath and rubs a hand over his face.He’s overreacting.He’s sodding overreacting, and Sherlock is getting that quiet way about him, that means that he’s trying to make himself small, to not set John off, and isn’t that just the shite icing on this whole fucking nightmare of a cake John’s just created out of absolutely nothing at all.

“Sorry.”

“Alright.”

“I just…”John swallows back a tide of emotion he doesn’t understand.“It bothers me, not being able to support my own daughter.It bothers me.”

“You do support her.”

“Yeah.Maybe.I guess, but…”

“And if working at the surgery is what you want, then by all means you should continue.I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.I mistakenly thought you might enjoy the break.That’s all.”

John takes another deep, and trembling breath, and looks over his shoulder.“You okay?”

Sherlock’s brow knits in confusion.

“I don’t like getting like that with you.I don’t want you to feel like you have to walk on eggshells.I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No.It’s not.I’m sorry.Come here.”

John lies back down, and reaches out, and Sherlock comes, curls into him, like nothing’s happened, and John tries not to hate himself. 

“We didn’t have anything when I was a kid, you know.When I was eight and Harry was ten she would pull stuff out of the skip behind the grocers for our lunches on the way to school.Dad didn’t work much, and he drank away most of what he made when he did.I always swore to myself that if I ever had a kid of my own, I’d make sure they were fed, and clothed, and taken care of.”

Sherlock nods against his chest.“But you hate your job.”

John huffs wetly into Sherlock’s hair, and then stares down at the top of his head.“Christ I do.I really do.” 

Sherlock’s arms tighten around his waist.“And you have work that you love— _the_ work—our work, John.The cases.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock looks up at him.“That’s your contribution as much as mine.And the time you spend with us.That’s a contribution too.”

John shakes his head, not understanding.

“I would rather have you than all the money in the world, John.You, your attention, your care, your—your love.Those are contributions just as much, or more than any money you might bring in.I can always find money, but you…No one’s loved me before.”

Something about the way Sherlock says it twists a some deep part of John’s heart.It aches.He aches for him, for all the years of aloneness, and all the people who were idiots, who couldn’t see the miracle he was, and chose to judge, and hate, and abuse him instead—John included.

“I’ll always love you.Always, okay.”And he kisses him, and tries to forget the rest, because Sherlock is right.They’re what matters—them together.Family.The one thing John had never truly had until Sherlock.

“This time of year is just hard for me, I think,” he manages when they finally part again.

But Sherlock’s hand is large and warm atop his head, and his breath is sweet with tea and honey as it wafts over John’s lashes, and John lets his eyes slide shut, and rests in the comfort of it. 

“I know.”Sherlock strokes a thumb over his temple, and massages in slow, soothing circles.“I know it is.I’d hoped that being here might…I’d hoped that a change of scenery might ease your way through the season.You have been working yourself to exhaustion lately, and I’d wondered if it was the impending holiday.”

“Maybe,” John admits.He’s growing boneless beneath Sherlock’s tender touch.“I don’t realise it, you know.Don’t do it on purpose, it just sort of—happens.”

“I know.”

“And I meant what I said the other day.This was a good idea.I’m glad we came.I like it here.”

“Do you?”

“Mmm…”John sniffs, and lets Sherlock tangle their limbs, and pull him closer.“It’s quiet.I feel quiet.”

“Yes.”

“Not all that keen to get back, to be honest.If not for Ro, I’d see if we couldn’t let it a few more days.”

“Yes, I feel the same.”

“Really?”John looks up at him.“Thought you’d be bored to tears by now.”

“No.”Sherlock brushes the hair back from John’s forehead, and presses his lips to the spot he’s just bared.

“Maybe we could come back next year, spend the whole of Christmas here, if they haven’t sold it.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to nap.”

John grins.“By nap, do you mean snog?”

“No, but I’m not averse to the idea.”

“Mm, that so…?”John rolls his hips a little, which is a rather pleasurable affair, given the location of Sherlock’s thigh between his legs.

Sherlock smiles back, just a little wickedly.“Mmm.Just so.”

“Then let’s.”

They do.


	19. Day 19 - Kissing in Front of the Fireplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 9 - Kissing in Front of the Fireplace**
> 
> **Author's Note:** Bit of a short one today, folks. Apologies. More tomorrow, as today is my last day of work until the new year!

“John?”

“Mmm…?”The fire in the bedroom hearth is warm, and John feels drowsy and content in his spot on the carpet in front of it.Sherlock has just spent a long, lazy hour snogging him senseless, and he still feels a little boneless.

“What exactly is your opinion on surprises?”

John tilts his head back with a heavy sigh, and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.“Why do I have a feeling this isn’t going anywhere good?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Rhetorical?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good Christ.”

Sherlock’s face has taken on a slightly pinched quality, which means he’s gone from curiosity to concern, and John supposes he should really answer him just to draw a line somewhere.

“It’s alright as long as it’s something nice. I think intent matters.”

“How so?”

“I mean are you lying to keep a secret about something that will make the other person happy or are you lying to keep a secret to protect yourself.That’s the difference between a nice and not so nice surprise.”

“Hmm…”

“What’s that mean?”

“What if it’s a little of both?”

John sighs and lays down on the floor, stares up at the shadows the flames in the bedroom hearth cast on the ceiling.“You going to tell me what it is you’ve done?”

“Who says I’ve done anything?”

“I do.You have your guilty face.”

Sherlock looks down at him, scandalised.“I don’t have a ‘guilty face’.”

“Yup.You do.”

Sherlock just wraps himself more tightly in the blanket draped over his shoulders, and stares into the flames.

John sits up.“Listen, whatever it is, I—I won’t get angry.I promise.”

“You can’t promise.You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

“Just tell me.”

“I can’t yet.”

“Why?”

“It would ruin the surprise.”

“Oh, so there is a surprise.”

“Well, it is Christmas.”

John grins.“So it’s a Christmas gift?”

“In a way.”

“Mm, sounds mysterious.”

“Only if you don’t know what to look for.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I might have already figured it out.”

“No.”

John pings onto the mild insult, and rolls his eyes again.“Thought I was smarter than I looked.Seem to remember some posh bloke saying something like that this one time.”

He sees the corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirk.“Yes, well.You did figure out we didn’t have a case.Rather more quickly than I anticipated you would, too.”

“See.Clever.”John crawls over, leans in, leans over, and kisses him, and Sherlock hums low in his throat, and reaches out for him, which lands them both side-by-side on the carpet again.John huffs at the jolt to his shoulder.“Getting too old for all this adolescent carrying on.”

But Sherlock just slides his hands up under John’s jumper, and rolls over, pulling his body atop his.“You don’t really mind, do you?”

“Mind?”

“The things we’ve been doing.I know—we didn’t talk about it.It just happened, and if any of it has been more than you are comfortable with, you can say, John.I don’t need it.I—I’ve been rather selfish I suppo…”

John kisses him again, and kisses, and kisses, and kisses him, and when they finally part, Sherlock is flushed, and hard, and panting, and John chuckles.“Oh, you know me.I’m up for anything.”He winks, and thrills at the smile that spreads across Sherlock’s face in response, at the way Sherlock’s nails scratch lightly up his back, and his thigh presses teasingly between John’s legs.

“So I see.”

“So…”

“So?”

“Should we see?”

John watches Sherlock’s pupils dilate and sighs when he dips his hands below the waistband of John’s trousers to cup his arse.“Yes, I believe we should.”


	20. Day 20 - Snowstorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 20 - Snowstorm**
> 
> **Author's Note:** Please note that this chapter earns it's explicit rating. Please heed the new tags listed below. If you've been reading me for awhile, you're probably familiar with my brand of mild dom/sub. This is definitely not full on BDSM, but I do like to play with a mild dom/sub dynamic, especially the psychology and healing aspects of it, because I see it sort of inherent in the characters relationship. It's pretty tender and gentle, but if this is something you can't deal with at all, then feel free to skip this chapter. I don't think you will miss out on anything really big. 
> 
> **Added Tags:** #Light Dom/sub, #Light Dom Sherlock, #Light Sub John, #Frottage, #Light Bondage, #Masturbation, #Mutual Masturbation, #Orgasm Delay/Denial

It’s the wind that wakes John hours later, whistling around the eaves, and rattling the windows in their frames.John slips from Sherlock’s arms without waking him and pads to the window, only to be met with a wall of white.It’s hard to tell what he’s looking at.Fog and snow, or snow already drifting against the window panes high enough to obscure his view?

He stokes the fire in the bedroom hearth, burned down to mere coals now, and then slips into some warm socks and pulls a dressing gown over his pyjamas before going downstairs to investigate further.He stokes the fire in the lounge as well, and then goes to the back door, and eases it open a crack.

He’s immediately met with a blast of cold air and stinging snow, and great heaps of snow that had been drifting against the door, tumble onto the boot mat and floor.

“Shit.”He pushes the door shut again, and locks it for good measure, and then leans back against it and stares down at the snow already starting to melt into puddles against the tile.“Fuck,” he whispers for good measure.They had been planning on heading back to London later in the day, and that is certainly not going to happen now.

He manages to sweep some of the snow up and dump it in the sink in the kitchen, but has to soak up the melt with a flannel.When he’s done he makes a pot of coffee, and retreats with a cup to the lounge.It’s warm and homely now, and he curls his legs under him on the sofa, drapes Sherlock’s afghan over his lap, and stares into the flames crackling through the glass door of the wood stove. 

He thinks of Rosie back in London with Mrs. Hudson and Margaret.He wonders if she’s having a good time, if she misses him.He wonders if she’ll be characteristically angry with him when he finally reappears.She’s got the Watson temper, and she’s started making him pay for it when he leaves her for more than a day. 

He tries to remember that she’s just a toddler, and that it’s not personal, not in a premeditated way, but it still hurts when she refuses to speak to him, mostly because it reminds him of how inadequate a father he is.And he is.He really is.He may put a roof over her head, and clothes on her back, and food in her belly, but he’s not there for her in all the other ways a man should be there for his child, not in the ways that Sherlock had mentioned, emotional things, love, bonding.He’s struggled with all that from the start, and it’s hard not to feel inadequate.

“Stop worrying.” 

John jumps at the sound of Sherlock’s voice so close, at the sensation of his breath on his ear, and his hands sliding over his shoulders.

“Christ, you scared me.Didn’t hear you come in.”John tilts his head back, and Sherlock leans down to kiss him good-morning.“Did you sleep okay?”

“Like a baby.”

“Good.And I wasn’t worrying.I was thinking.”

“You were worrying about us not getting back in time for Christmas.All this snow will be melted and gone by then.It will be fine.”

“Hope so.”

Sherlock heads for the kitchen.“Is there more of that coffee?”

“Yeah.Made a whole pot.”

The light outside the windows is turning a slate grey with the encroaching dawn, but the storm gives no signs of abating. 

Sherlock returns a few minutes later with coffee, and toast with honey.He hands John a slice, and then settles in on the sofa beside, staring blearily into the flames while he eats.“They said it was supposed to be bad, but I imagined them to be blowing everything out of of proportion, as usual.”

“Wait, you knew about this?!”

“They were calling it ‘Snowpocalypse’ on the news.That seemed a bit alarmist.But for once, perhaps they weren’t all that wrong.”

John sighs.“What are we going to do?”

“Wait it out, I imagine.So far we haven’t lost electricity, and if we do we have the stove, and the fireplace in the bedroom, and the cooking is gas.We’ll be fine.Though, I do hope the pipes don’t freeze.”

John sighs, and pulls the blanket on his lap over to cover both of them.

“I should probably go out and check the hives, though.”

John laughs in disbelief.“Why?!They’re empty.They’re not even yours.”

“Yes, well--they’re already a sight, and the added weight of all this snow may finish them off completely.Perhaps the owner might still like to use them some day.She really should have wintered them in the shed.”Sherlock sounds more than a little chagrinned.

“She?”

“Mm?”

“You said ‘she’.You know the owner’s a woman?”

“Oh, well, you know…Her name was on the listing when I booked it.”

“Right.So why do you have _the tone_.”

“What tone.”

“Your guilty tone.”

Sherlock sighs and stands up suddenly.“Don’t be ridiculous, please, John.”He disappears into the kitchen, as John feels something tight and sour start to twist in the pit of his stomach.

He gets up himself, and hurries after him.When he gets to the kitchen Sherlock is standing in front of the fridge with the door open, investigating its contents.

“It’s her, isn’t it.”

Sherlock’s head drops back and he sighs deeply at the ceiling.“Will you ever stop imagining some sort of illicit affair between that woman and me, John.Are we to still be having this discussion when we’re both ninety, do you think?”

“So the cottage isn’t Irene Adler’s?”

“Of course it’s not.What use would she have with a quaint little cottage in the country.”

“Oh, I don’t know.Pretty innocuous.Good set up for…”

Sherlock turns around, looking more amused than he has any right being.“For…?”

“I don’t know.Some sort of retreat, get away, sex dungeon, whatever it is she sets up for her clients.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and then narrow, he’s deducing.John wants to be angry, but really he’s brought all this on himself with his unrelenting and utterly ridiculous jealousy.Sherlock’s eyes drag the length of his body a couple of times, stop to linger on his face, and then he turns back to the fridge with a sigh, and shuts the door.

“Go get dressed.”

“What?Why?”

“I want to go out and check the hives.You might as well come with me.”

“It’s freezing out there!”

“Excellent observation, John.But really, it would be colder without the snow.Bundle up well, and you’ll barely feel it.”

“You may not have stepped outside this morning, but I have.The wind alone is enough to knock a bloke off his feet.”

“Then we’ll be quick.”

John turns on his heel, muttering about the bloody ridiculous hives all the way up the stairs to the bedroom, grumping about stubborn, mad consulting detectives as he brushes his teeth and combs his hair, griping about tight arses, and pouty lips, and tousled curls when Sherlock appears in the bedroom to get dressed and almost distracts John from his sulk.

By the time they both get back downstairs and push the door open to the back garden, it’s light outside, even if the world is still a swirl of whistling white against a slate grey sky.The small brick patio outside the back door is already at least two feet deep in snow, with drifts building by the minute.

“Christ,” John mutters.“It _is_ a snowpocalypse!Should shovel the front walk at least, I guess.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Oh no you won’t.Not with your heart.”

“My heart is fine.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffs, and then sets off across the garden toward the hives, leaving a trail of footprints behind him.John follows in his wake.

Sherlock stops short at the sight of two overturned and buried hives.“Fuck.”

John blinks in shock.Sherlock’s not usually one for profanity.“Honestly, what is it with you and bees lately.You planning on starting an apiary or something?They’re not even your bloody hives.”

“Just help me.”

“Yeah, okay.Fine.”

They right the hives, and then carry them to the shed where they’d parked the car, and pile them to the side.It takes them several trips to get all the pieces of all three hives stacked neatly in a corner, and John’s trouser legs are soaked through to the knees by the time they’re done, because it is heavy, wet snow, and he’s worked up quite a sweat with all the trudging back and forth.

“There.All safe and dry, and the owner should give us a bloody free day after all the work we just did.”

John can hear Sherlock already heading back out into the snow.“John.”

“What?”He turns and is hit with a hard impact to the chest and a spray of snow.It takes him a second to register the fact that Sherlock, _Sherlock Holmes_ , has just lobbed a snowball at him.

Sherlock grins like a naughty schoolboy. 

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be is it?”John grins.“And after all my help!”

Sherlock leans down to grab another handful, and John races out from under the cover of the shed to try and beat him to it.He takes another hit before he’s able to gather and form a snowball of his own, but Sherlock is jogging across the yard with a chuckle now, and John has to chase after him, only managing to hit his retreating form between the shoulder blades.

Sherlock reaches the trees on the far side of the garden and takes cover behind one, leaving John out in the open to take volley after volley of fire.Unfair.John drops to his belly on instinct and scurries along the ground until he reaches the cover of some low-lying holly bushes, and is able to stockpile a few snowballs beside him.

Another snowball zings overhead, and he rolls his eyes.“You’re wasting ammunition!You can’t hit me here, and you know it!”

He hears Sherlock laugh.“And you can’t hit me, so it seems we’re at an impasse.Someone needs to make a move.”

John parts the branches of the holly with one hand.He can see Sherlock’s shoulder just the other side of the trunk of the giant oak he’s hiding behind.If he can manage it quietly enough, John thinks he might just manage to make his way to the far end of the garden bed unseen, pop up, and dash across the lawn behind him before Sherlock realises what’s happened.It’s a risk, but one he’s willing to take. 

He scoops up two snowballs, and rolls rather than crawls to the end of the garden bed.He takes one, last, quick peek.Sherlock hasn’t moved, and so, with a deep breath, he scrambles to his feet and makes a dash for it.

Sherlock spins, just as John comes up behind him, and John manages to hit him twice, once in the shoulder, and once in the thigh, before colliding and knocking him to the ground.He hears Sherlock grunt with the force of the impact, but then, before John can get his wits about him, Sherlock’s flipped him onto his back and pinned his wrists above his head.

He looks down at him, face a mirror of joy and amusement, eyes sparkling, as he pants with exertion.“You should know better, John.”

“I was a soldier, you forget.I could turn the tables right now, if I wanted to.”He grins back.

“Yes.”Sherlock stills, and his eyes darken.“If you wanted to.”And then Sherlock’s mouth is on his, a gorgeous contrast of hot and wet in the cold around them, and John moans into the kiss, only then realising how keyed up he his, how alive he feels, adrenaline racing through his veins, the crackle of combat singing through his cells, and the heady, commanding, safe weight of Sherlock’s body bearing down on his.He’s hard as a rock, and so, he’s pleased to discover, is Sherlock.

They’re essentially hidden from sight where they are, not even their nearest neighbour could see them, but they’re still outdoors, a canopy of bare-limbed trees clacking overhead in the wild wind, snow swirling around them in icy clouds, and something about it just seems to add to John’s excitement.It’s surprised him today, snuck up on him, this aching, burning, straining want.

He kisses back, and arches his hips upward, but Sherlock shifts, manages to part his legs and pin them down and apart denying him the friction he needs.He pulls away from the kiss panting.“What are you doing?”

“Making you wait.”

“This punishment?”

“Do you want it to be?”Sherlock’s voice is pitched low, and wicked, and John lets his head fall back into the snow.

“Yeah.God, yeah,” he breathes without thinking, and then Sherlock’s mouth is crashing back against his, and John is straining against the hold Sherlock has on his wrists, and the weight he has on his thighs, and he burns. 

He’s almost dizzy with it.It’s the best thing he’s ever felt, hands down, ever, with anyone.He’s forty-five years old, and he wonders if he’s ever really had sex a day in his life, he wonders how, and why now, and who fucking cares because Christ Jesus in heaven he wants to come, and Sherlock won’t let him, and he’s so fucking grateful he could cry.

He doesn’t understand it. 

He doesn’t understand anything that is happening.

He doesn’t care.

He lets go.

“Mmm…”Sherlock must feel it.He hums against his lips, and eases back on the deepness of the kiss, pulls back to press soft kisses to the corners of his mouth, his eye-lids, up the line of his jaw.And then he presses his cold nose under the line of John’s scarf, and kisses his neck, and John moans, and hisses at the scrape of teeth, and groans at the swipe of a hot and eager tongue.

“John…”And there’s only that voice, a soft, warm darkness, and that voice.

“John?”

“Mm.”

“We’re going inside.”

“Ok.”

He’s being helped to his feet.He’s opening his eyes to silver-grey, white, inky-black, aqua-blue, to a warm hand taking his, leading him in and out of the cold, up the stairs to their bedroom.

Sherlock’s hand is on his chin.“I have a question and you need to answer it.”

John nods.

“If you want this to stop, me to stop, tell me.”

John nods again.“Yeah.”

“Pick a word.”

“What?”

“A word to tell me to stop.But not ‘stop’.Something else.”

“Vatican Cameos,” John says without thinking.

Sherlock huffs and smiles softly.“Maybe not that.Might make for an awkward situation some day.”

“What are we doing?”John finally manages.

“We’re doing what you want.”

And John thinks he rather likes the sound of that.“Okay.”

“But still, a word…”Sherlock arches a brow.

John thinks.“Peppermint.”

“Peppermint?”

John nods.The only gift they got some Christmases when he was a boy.“Yeah.Peppermint.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock shrugs out of his coat, scarf, and gloves, and leaves them in a heap on the floor, before beginning to strip John of his own outerwear.“Where did you put the things we bought a Boots the other day?”

“In the top drawer by the sink in the loo.”

“Go get them.”

He does, and when he gets back, Sherlock has stoked the fire and is standing naked beside the bed.John takes in the sight of him hungrily, all pale, flushed skin, peaked nipples, straining cock.His mouth waters, and he swallows it down.

“Lie down.”Sherlock nods toward the bed.

John does.He’s fully clothed, and Sherlock is completely naked, and the whole thing is odd, and hot, and slightly disorienting, but he’s still so hard he can barely stand it, and he wonders if that is a part of it too, if Sherlock wants to be the one to loose him, to bring him relief.He has to screw his eyes shut, because the thought of it paired with the image of Sherlock taking the lube and condoms from his hand, and climbing onto the bed beside him, mouth parted, eyelids heavy erect cock bobbing between his thighs, is too much.

“You can say the word.”

John nods.“I know.”

“Good.”

He feels Sherlock settle down on the tops of his thighs, bare arse against wet corduroy.Sherlock’s arse is warm even through the thick fabric of John’s trousers, and he arches his hips up again without thinking.

Sherlock reaches down, and presses his hips back into the mattress.“That’s what I love about you John.A man of action.”

John tries again, and Sherlock presses back harder, palms pressed to John’s hipbones, and John feels his balls pull up in response.

“Oh god, I’m gonna…”

“Don’t you dare.”And there’s something in Sherlock’s voice that snaps something in John, brings him back in control of his own body, and he manages to hold back, somehow.He opens his eyes, and Sherlock smiles.“Interesting.”

“What is?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“You really do want this.”It’s not a question.

John blinks and then nods, awash in the revelation of it.He’s never wanted anything more, and he thinks, for a brief moment, that he should be ashamed of wanting this, wanting to lay himself down, lay himself bare, wanting to give over, give in, submit wholly and completely, but he isn’t, he realises.He isn’t.It’s a fucking relief, if he’s honest.It’s a relief to let Sherlock lead. 

All this time he’s been seeing Sherlock as the hesitant one, the inexperienced one, and he’s wanted to do right by him, gentle him into it, take their time, but perhaps he’s had it all wrong from the start.Sherlock’s always been exceptional, brilliant, a quick study, and when he knows what he wants there’s no one who can convince him otherwise.Perhaps he’s been holding back all this time, because he thought it was what John wanted?Perhaps it was what John actually thought he wanted, but…

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock orders gently.

John does.

“Now tell me—what do you want.”

“Wanna come.”

“You will.I can promise you that.But not yet.Now, what do you want?”

“Want you to kiss me.”

Something softens in Sherlock’s eyes.He dips down, braces his hands on either side of John’s head, and kisses him, slow and deep.And John wishes he’d pin him down again, like he had outside.He wants the struggle, the surrender.He can feel his cheeks start to burn.

Sherlock pulls back.“What else?”

But this is harder.

“What else?”Sherlock whispers against his lips.

John shakes his head.

“Do you want to stop?”

“No!”John’s eyes snap open, and Sherlock’s brow knits.He lifts a hand to stroke John’s cheek with his thumb.It’s wet. 

“Then you have to tell me, John.We’re doing what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want?”He hates the way he sounds.Fourteen years old, and fucking ashamed.

“You do.”And when John closes his eyes again.“John.”He opens them.“Do you really think there is anything you could ask for that I would find odd?Me?”He smiles and John huffs a wet, weak laugh.

“I don’t want you to feel like I forced you to do something you didn’t want.”

“I’m giving the orders here.You don’t have to worry about that.”

_Oh._

“I want…I want what happened outside.”

“The tussle?”

“I want you to take it.”

“Take what?”

“What you want.Me.”There is so much blood rushing to his cheeks that he’s getting a headache.

Sherlock pulls back a little, and lets his eyes wander, pulling in data from John’s facial expressions, to his flushed cheeks, his pinched brow, his tense body and flagging erection.

“You want the choices taken out of your hands,”

John nods, instantly growing hard again, at the unexpected rush of arousal.

“That’s a dangerous line to tread.Especially for us.Especially now.You do realise that.”

John nods.His cock throbbing painfully against the flies of his trousers.

“You’ll use the word?”

John nods.

“Say it.”

“Yeah.I’ll use the word.Peppermint.I’ll use it.”

“Promise.”Sherlock’s voice is soft, and low, and a little worried.

“I promise.”John says with as much conviction as he can muster.

Sherlock nods.“Alright.Then we’ll proceed.”He gets up, gets off the bed, and heads for the loo, and John sits up, propping himself on this elbows to watch. 

“Lie down.”Sherlock says without turning around, and John does, reaches down to palm himself through his trousers.“No touching yourself!”Sherlock calls from the room beyond, and John wonders if he has eyes in the back of his head.He’s Sherlock.It’s possible.

When Sherlock comes back he’s got the tie to John’s fleece dressing gown in his hands, and John feels his skin prickle to life.Sherlock doesn’t waste any time, he just crawls back on John, takes his hands and starts to bind his wrists together.

John struggles, just because he wants to see what will happen, what Sherlock will do, and he doesn’t disappoint.He scowls and pins Johns wrists the mattress with one hand.“Stop struggling.”

“Wanna.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches.“And you call me a brat.”

John grins, feels light, feels so fucking free it’s hard to believe he’s here having sex at all.Sex is usually much more stilted or awkward, or distracting than this.This feels more like—play.

John struggles again, and this time Sherlock pulls the ties he has around his wrist tight, so tight it actually hurts, and John blinks.Sherlock pulls tighter, and John surprises himself with a deep moan as a flood of blood rushes to his cock.And when Sherlock dips down and sucks hard at his neck, and ruts himself, rock hard, and twitching against John’s thigh, John whines long and deep in his throat, and throws his head back panting, dizzy, breathless.

It’s only then that Sherlock loosens the binds enough for circulation to return to John’s wrists, and John moans again at the prickle of blood returning to his fingertips, and the throbbing agony of his cock still trapped inside his trousers like a heavy bruise.

Sherlock pulls back grabs John by the hips, and pushes him up toward the headboard, and then leans down, grabs his bound wrists, and ties them to it.John can feel the pull and burn in his shoulder.It hurts, but that only seems to be adding to his arousal now.Still, through the haze of his pleasure, he can see Sherlock’s eyes, laser sharp, assessing.He pulls John a little closer to the headboard, easing a little of the pull, and then settles back down on his thighs, just enough to pin them down, but not close enough for John to be able to rub up against him.

He reaches behind himself and takes up the bottle of lube lying on the bed, and John sighs with relief, as he watches Sherlock dispense a little in his hands, rub it between his palms to warm it, and then…

Sherlock reaches down, and wraps one hand around his own cock, giving it a long, languorous pull, as he reaches up with his other slick hand, and smoothes it over his chest, smearing across peaked nipples.He throws his head back, and sighs in relief, and John lets out a sound he doesn’t even recognise, practically keens with want, and need, and disappointment.

The tease.The god damned, bloody tease, but didn’t John ask for it, and isn’t he, on some level, in some weird way even he doesn’t understand, loving it, even now.

He strains against the ties on his wrists, but Sherlock has tied them well, and they hold fast, bite into his wrists a little, the harder he pulls.His shoulder screams at him in protest and he ignores it, thrusts his hips upward at nothing, but then realises he’s can get a little friction from the brush of his pants and trousers, and so keeps at it, and this time Sherlock doesn’t try to stop him.He just looks down at him, eyes dark, and mouth lax as he strokes himself, and says, “Don’t come.Not yet.Don’t come.”And then he moans, and John just about loses it right there, and can’t help but wonder what might happen if he disobeyed.A hundred laps around the back garden in the driving snow?Kitchen duty for a month?Push ups until his arms, and shoulders and back burn like…

Sherlock moans again, and starts to move, thrusting up into his own hand, and John pulls at his bonds again, because he can’t stop himself anymore.The friction from his pants isn’t enough, the pressure of his trousers is too much, and the harder he struggles the more it turns him on until he’s panting, and trembling, and aching, and tumbles over the precipice into a place he’s never been before.

It’s like the place between awake and asleep, except he feels more awake than he’s ever been in his life.It’s like the fog of pain he’d slipped in and out of for two months in an army hospital when his shoulder had gone bad after a shoddy surgery and a series of infections, except this is as much pleasure as it is pain.It’s a world all its own, a world of Sherlock’s making, and John wonders how long Sherlock will leave him teetering here, and why he wants it, why it feels so fucking good he could cry ( _is crying?_ ).

“You can say the word.”A weight on his body, hot breath on his cheek, lips on his.“You can say the word, John.Remember the word?Peppermint.You can say it.”

He thrashes his head from side-to-side on the pillow, and thinks he hears Sherlock sigh.

“Shh…”And suddenly the pressure against his cock lets go.He moans in relief, arches his back up off the mattress, and is met with the hot, tight plane of Sherlock’s abdomen, the welcome weight of his body, the still hard line of his cock.“Shh…”Sherlock breathes against his neck, fingers through his hair, lips against the damp, leaking corners of his eyes.

“Come now, John.”Warm, slick heat envelops his cock, and glides, and he sobs with pleasure, strains against his bonds.“No struggle.It’s alright.You’re almost there.Come now.It’s alright.”

Their bodies move together like waves on the sea, Sherlock’s voice always there, murmuring, a lulling hush.“Beautiful.Look at you.Beautiful.Just like that.”The steady glide of Sherlock’s hand speeds up for a moment, a gasp, a soft grunt, a surge of slick heat spilling down to slick them both, and Sherlock’s encouragement coming in panting, breathless sighs, but the smooth motion of his hand resumes again after a moment, steady, sure, safe.

And when John comes it’s effortless.It simply takes him, and he lets it.No fight.No urge to try to hold back, to make it hurt as much as it thrills, no thoughts of reciprocity, or performance, or what is right and what is wrong.He just lets it come, a bright burst that kicks a shout from his throat, and then washes over him in soft waves, as it subsides, waves that string out into quiet moans, and then to sighs, and then to quiet.

There are hands gliding up the length of his arms, in slow firm strokes.Knots let go, his arms drop back down to the mattress, and there is the soft cluck of a tongue, and warm hands easing his arms slowly forward, down to his chest, until he hisses with the pain of it, and then a hand cups over his shoulder, warms it until it lets go enough to move the rest of the way.

A warm flannel over his belly, and trousers and pants removed, and blankets pulled up under his nose, and a body, solid, safe, and sure, pulling him in, holding him close.“You’ve just lost your right to call me the stubborn one.”Murmured against his temple.“I love you.”Whispered there, too.

He sleeps.


	21. Day 21 - The Grinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Day 21 - The Grinch**

John wakes to screaming muscles, and the warmth of Sherlock’s body enfolded around his, the sound of Sherlock’s heart beating, steady with its soft, and by now familiar murmur thumping beneath his ear.

He aches, but he feels rested.The light outside has started to dim again.He wonders how many hours he’s slept.He thinks about getting up and looking for his phone, but then Sherlock hums, and stirs, and he decides that staying right where he is, is the better choice.

“Mmm, you’re awake.”Sherlock stretches and murmurs into his hair.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Long enough that I think you’re well caught up.The whole of yesterday and last night.”

“What?!Jesus.I haven’t slept that long since…Well I think since the field hospital in Kandahar.”

“I imagine you needed it.”Sherlock is pressing kisses to the top of his head, tracing the tips of his fingers in long, lazy trails up and down John’s back, and John thought that this would be hard, the _afterwards_.But it’s not.Somehow, some way, it’s not.He’s completely at ease.

He presses up, and tangles their limbs, and cards his fingers through inky curls, before pressing their foreheads together, and holding Sherlock’s gaze.“What’d I do to deserve you, hm?”

Sherlock smiles, and lets his eyes slide shut as John fists his hair, and tugs lightly, just the way he likes.“If I’m remembering correctly Doctor Watson still owes you a thorough internal examination.”

Sherlock chuckles.“I’ve not forgotten.”

“Good.Because the good doctor is a man of his word.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

John kisses him, relishes in the familiar comfort of the way their lips move together, their hands explore one another’s bodies, the way both of their cocks make rather pathetic attempts at interest, and fail, and the way it doesn’t matter.

After a while Sherlock rolls away and stretches.“I’m starving, and I need to go into the village this afternoon.Just a quick trip.”

“Alone?”

“It’s to do with the surprise.”

“Oh.”John smiles and stretches, himself, and then hisses as his shoulder seizes. 

“You should put heat on that, and I’ll be more careful how I bind you next time.”

John’s cheeks pink at the memory.“Don’t mind the pain.”

“Clearly.But it’s best to avoid lasting damage, don’t you think?”

And John can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t.

Sherlock slips from the bed.He’s still naked, and John enjoys the view as he heads out the door to the loo, and then rolls over onto his good shoulder, and rolls the bad one out a bit.He’ll have to take something for it, but it will right itself in a day or two.

The room is cold when he finally gets out from under the covers.he can hear the shower starting up in the loo, and he figures that since it’s Sherlock’s day to wash his hair, he will have time to cook them both a proper breakfast.

He slips into some flannel pyjama bottoms, warm socks and a jumper, and stares out the window at the garden.It’s still snowing.The wind isn’t quite so severe, but he has no idea how Sherlock thinks he’s going to get into town, or who would be there to meet him if he did.He’ll be lucky to get the car out of the driveway.

John has just got all the ingredients out of the fridge for a proper fry-up, when there’s a knock on the front door.And he wonders if it’s Santa Claus himself, because he has no idea who else would come out in such weather, and it would only be with a sled and reindeer that anyone could traverse the mess of the roads.With a grumble, he turns off the gas on the cooker, and goes to answer it.

He wipes his hands on the thighs of his pyjamas, and swings the door wide, squinting into the wind and the struggling morning light.“Oh, John.What a hullaballoo!Have you ever seen weather like it?!”

And John just blinks at the bright green coat, and lustrous black hair, and twinkling, mischievous brown eyes, and tries to swallow down the urge to slam the door again.“Janine?”

“I know.It’s early, and it’s a surprise.”She pushes past him into the foyer, and bangs the snow from her boots onto the the carpet.“I know we were meant to meet in town, but I was lucky the trains were running at all, and then it took a miracle, and more than a few bribes, to get a cab here from Eastbourne, and I thought, ‘there’s no way poor Sherl will even make it out of the drive in all of this, so I thought I’d just come over.”

John just stares.“Why are you here?”

She pulls the scarf from around her neck, and shakes out her hair, before catching sight of his face, and lifting a gloved hand to her mouth.“Oh Lord, he’s not told you yet.”

“Told me what?”And John is more than aware that he sounds murderous, and he’s not being at all welcoming, and quite frankly, he could care less.This grinchy ghost from his past is the very last person he wants to see at his door this close to Christmas, and it completely bursts the warm, safe bubble he and Sherlock have spent the last week building.

“I’d better not say another word.But I would appreciate a warm cuppa if you have one.I nearly froze my arse off trying to get here.”

John doesn’t say anything, just turns and heads for the kitchen, in silence, fuming, thinking of all the ways he’s going to…Well, he hasn’t decided yet, but there will be hell to pay.He doesn’t appreciate secrets.He appreciates being blindsided even less, and leave it to Sherlock to do something so absolutely, bloody…

“Do you like it, then?”

“Like what?”

John pours a cup of tea, adds cream, purposely leaves out the sugar, because if he remembers correctly, she takes it.

“The cottage!I don’t know what I was thinking, really.Seemed a good idea at the time.Fully furnished.Ready to enjoy.But then I got here and there was just all this junk…”

“It’s not junk.Belonged to someone once.”

“Well, it’s certainly not to my taste.”She take a sip of tea from the cup John’s just handed her.“Speaking of.”She lifts the cup.“Mind handing me a little sugar.”

John slams a sugar bowl down on the table and hears the water shut off upstairs.

“At any rate, that’s when I got the idea to let it.”She adds, and John feels like throwing something.

He hears Sherlock’s steps on the stairs.“You decent, because we have company!”He calls out, and watches Janine’s brow arch.She leans back in her chair and watches the door to the kitchen with undisguised curiosity.Her perfectly painted lips spreading into a smile when Sherlock’s head pops around the corner.

“‘Morning.”

Sherlock’s face is an unreadable blank.His eyes jump from her, to John, and back to her again.He steps into the room.“We were supposed to meet in town.”

John feels like throwing up.

“Weather did not permit, Love.I’ve just been telling John.”

“Werther is in town.”

“Werther can drag is pasty old arse a few streets over.I’ve just come all the way from London.The worst of it was the drive from Eastbourne to here.I’ve called him already.”

“You’ve rather ruined the surprise, you know.It was meant to be a Christmas gift.”

She looks up at John and smiles.“You two finally settling down then?That’s good.”She shakes her head and turns to John.“You were all he talked about those couple of months we were—well we were never really together, were we.”She finishes, grinning at Sherlock.

“Water under the bridge I hope.”

“It will be when Werther gets here and I have my money in hand.”

John leans back against the counter and rubs a hand over his eyes.“Sorry.Sorry, but what exactly is going on?”

Sherlock sighs.“Janine owns this cottage, John.She bought it with the money she made dragging my name through the mud after the whole Magnussen affair.And then, as per her horribly fickle nature, she tired of it, and started to let it with a mind to sell.”

Janine pulls a face at him, and then grins before taking another sip of tea.“He bought it.”She says, setting the cup down again.“Or at least, he will have bought it when the bloody estate agent gets here.”

“I’m very angry at you about the hives.”Sherlock pulls out a chair and sits down across the table from her, and John turns to get him a cup of tea, returns, places it in front of him, and then stays standing, just behind, a hand on his shoulder.

“You and those hives.”

“They were a mess, all the colonies gone.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all be budding apologists.But don’t worry.I didn’t just abandon them.One of your future neighbours came over and collected the lot of them.Appears there’s people just as mad as you ‘round here.”

John’s grip tightens on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock reaches up to give his hand a pat just as there is another knock at the front door.“And that will be Werther,” he announces, sliding back from the table.

John makes more tea.The ‘accountant’ from the skating rink earlier in the week appears.An estate agent, rather, it seems.Papers are signed.A light breakfast is served.And after everyone has trudged back out into the snow, and the kitchen is quiet again, John sets to washing the dishes in silence.

After a few moments he hears Sherlock come in and stop at the door.“That isn’t how I’d wanted this to go.”

“Mm.”

“John…”

“What?”

“It was meant to be a surprise. Your Christmas gift.I had a whole speech prepared.”

John takes a deep breath, lets his eyes slide shut, and the pan in his hands drop back beneath the dishwater.“You bought a fucking house without telling me.”

“I—I thought you liked it here.”

“I do like it…”He swings around.“I do like it—for a holiday.But, what on earth were you thinking?!What about Rosie.She’ll be school age soon.You going to send her to school out here?You think people are going to want to come all the way out here for cases.And what about me?What about my job?The closest surgery’s probably in Eastbourne.Seaford if I’m lucky.Did you even think about me, about what I might want?!Christ, Sherlock!You can be so fucking selfish sometimes.”

He’s being irrational, and he knows it, but he feels blindsided by the whole bloody thing, the house, and Sherlock being Sherlock, and fucking Janine, and he’s thrown off kilter, angry as hell, and…

“I didn’t expect us to move here right away, John.It can be a getaway for now.I—I’d only hoped that maybe, someday, when Rosie is grown and away at university, and you and I have tired of the mad rush, we might…But, you’re quite right I—I should have consulted with you first, I…”he sucks in a breath, and then turns and disappears.

John stares down at his hands, at the tips of his fingers pruned from the dishwater.He hears the telly switch on in the next room, Sherlock absently surfing through channels which he only does when he’s anxious as hell, and itching for a hit.

John sighs.Christ, but isn’t the whole mess so very Sherlock.He looks around the homely little kitchen, at the sun outside, trying to break through the cloud, catching on the fine snow drifting down from the trees, and turning the whole world into a shimmering, diamond wonderland.

It’s their house now.

The mad bastard bought a house, and he wants John to retire here with him someday, and…Well, that’s almost a marriage proposal where Sherlock is concerned.And John thinks again, of the little box stowed away in his overnight bag upstairs, and all the doubts and fears he’s wrestled with for the last year, and of the decision he’d come to just a few days prior, and now here’s confirmation that Sherlock wants, and needs, and loves him just as much, and predictably John’s been a right arse about it.

He finishes washing the frying pan, sets it on the drying rack, and then dries his hands and heads for the lounge.

Sherlock has pulled the sofa over closer to the telly, and is curled up in one corner, wrapped in his afghan, still clicking through one channel after another, one leg bouncing frantically, even though he’s got it curled mostly under himself.John forgets sometimes, because Sherlock can be so remarkable commanding, can loom so large, that there is part of him that is still this: anxious, lonely, afraid.His heart twists.

“Here, give me that.”John walks over to the sofa and holds out a hand for the remote.“And scoot over.” 

Sherlock does both, and John settles down on the sofa beside him.John flips through a few channels until he comes across The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.Appropriate.He sets the remote down, and reaches out. “Come here.” 

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Come here, okay.”

And finally he does, unfurls, and curls up against John’s side, clinging tight, like the absolute limpet he is.John wraps an arm around him, and they watch television in silence for awhile.It’s John who finally breaks it.“So, you want to retire to the country with me, hm?”And when Sherlock doesn’t say anything.“You realise you’re only going to get more eccentric with age, and I’m likely going to turn into a grumpy old man.”

“You’re already a grumpy old man.”

“Oi!”John elbows Sherlock in the ribs, and Sherlock chuckles, and then buries his face in John’s ribs.

“I’m sorry, John.I—I had a whole surprise arranged.Mrs. Hudson and Margaret were going to come up, bring Rosie the day after tomorrow.I was going to gift the deed to you then.We were going to all spend Christmas Eve and Day here, together.”

John smiles down at the top of his head.“Sorry she ruined your surprise.”

Sherlock looks up at him.“I wanted to avoid that.Ghosts of the past.I was going to tell you who owned the cottage, but after I’d gifted it to you, and I never intended for you to have to see her face-to-face.”

John nods, and Sherlock’s brow knits.“You do know that nothing happened between us, yes?”He searches John’s eyes.“I never…We were never intimate, John.”

John huffs out a laugh.“Yeah, I know.I just get…I don’t know.She sets me off.”

“Bad memories?”

“Yeah.Maybe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”John looks back at the television, at tiny Cindy Lou Who with a teacup perched atop her elaborate hairdo.“Ro and Mrs. Hudson are coming here?”

“Yes.If you like.I texted her last night.She’s still planning on coming.The snow’s stopping, and it’s not supposed to snow again.”

“That’s nice.That’ll be nice…Oh shit!What are we going to feed people?!”

“Always thinking of your stomach.”

“I mean it, Sherlock.We don’t have that kind of food in, and I’ve not even thought…”

“I’m catering it.”

“You’re what?”

“There’s a caterer in Seaford.”

John stares at him quizzically and then grins and shakes his head.“Well, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you.”

“Yes, well I am very clever, as you so often observe.”

John leans down, and buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair, huffs into his curls.“Yes, you are.A bloody menace, but fucking brilliant, god help me.”

All the tension has drained from Sherlock’s body.His grip on John has lessened, his leg is still.John kisses the top of his head.“I love you.I’m sorry about how I was in the kitchen.Don’t do well with surprises, I guess.”

“No one wants to unexpectedly be faced with Ghosts of Christmas Past, John.You’re not alone in that.”

“Feel like our morning got interrupted, and I—I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“For yesterday.”

“Ahh…”Sherlock looks up at him again, eyes searching and concerned.“You’re alright?”

John nods.“Needed it, I think.”

“Yes.I think so too.”

John can feel a grin teasing the corners of his mouth again.“Oh, you do?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, dead serious.“But I do have one rule.You ask for what you want.You tell me.I can deduce to a point, but—I would rather hear it from you.I think you need that.I know I do.”

“Why?”

“It’s safe.”

“Maybe I don’t want safe.”

“You don’t, and I can provide the illusion of danger, but it has to be an illusion.And when it comes to your heart, John…I’m always going to be cautious.”

John thinks about it.He thinks about cases, and conversations, and risks they took, times they tread too close to the line, tipped over, how it almost destroyed them, how he never wants to walk that path again.He nods.“Yeah.Okay.I promise.And you know what I want right now?”

“Mm?”

“To go take a proper look around.Now I know I’m sitting in my lounge, on my sofa, puts a bit of a different spin on things, doesn’t it.”

Sherlock grins.“Does it?”

“Mm.You going to join me?”

“Of course.Where should we start?”


	22. Day 22 - Past is Past is Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 22 - Past is Past is Past**
> 
> **Author's Note:** Bit of a short one today, but tomorrow will more than make up for it. I promise!

“Sign here.”

John stares down at the large envelope in the TNT delivery man’s hand with a scowl.There’s no return address, and no one should know to deliver anything to them here.Unless it’s something to do with the closing on the cottage, or some surprise of Sherlock’s.But it’s addressed to him.

He signs for the item, and then takes it inside, weighing it in his hand, to see if he can guess its contents.“Hey, Sherlock…?”

He walks into the lounge to Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a pile of VHS tapes they’d found in the attic.“Mmm?”

“You expecting something in the mail?”

“It’s addressed to you, why would you think I had anything to do with it?”

John doesn’t ask how Sherlock knows this.He’s given up trying to guess anymore.He sits down on the sofa, and tears the strip of the top of the cardboard envelope to open it.“Any good films in there?”

Sherlock holds up one rather battered copy of “A Christmas Carol” with Alistair Sim.“Mrs. Hudson will insist we watch this.She watches it every year.It’s as much a part of her Christmas morning routine, as the three glasses of spiked eggnog she consumes before breakfast.”

John smiles, and reaches into the envelope.The moment his hand closes over the plastic jewel case, he knows what it is.He can feel the surge of adrenaline race through his veins, and must give some tell, because Sherlock’s head snaps up, and he looks at him, looks at his hand in the envelope, meets his eyes again, and blanches.

They sit in silence looking at one another, and it feels for one horrible moment, like that day at Bart’s, all those years ago, When John had held Sherlock’s gaze as he stepped off the edge of a roof and plummeted to his death, tearing John’s whole life apart in an instant.But it isn’t Sherlock doing it, this time.

Sherlock gets to his feet.“I’ll go.I’m sure you prefer to watch it alone.”And John can see the slump of his shoulders that he’s trying to hide, and the wetness building in his eyes just before he turns away, the way all the things she did to him, to them, vibrate through his body like a waking nightmare.John has lived through more darkness than most people can dream of, enough that he can recognise the way trauma lies in a body like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the right trigger to set it off, and it’s clear—Sherlock is coming apart.

John gets up, walks the short distance between them, and pulls him into his arms, holds him up, holds him together.He doesn’t say anything, because there isn’t anything to say.All the words have been said, everything the two of them could possibly think of to exorcise has been, and she—she’s had more of a word than she deserves after all the things she’s done.

John holds Sherlock tighter, and crushes the corner of the envelope in his fist, white knuckled, suddenly furious that this is still happening, that she is still trying to reach out from beyond the grave and have her say, have her way, come between them.Even his fucking father had the courtesy to stay dead.But this—this is her keeping the wound open.

Sherlock’s arms hang limp at his side, and he doesn’t say anything, do anything.He still sees her as a friend in that strange way of his that ignores his own best interests just for a scrap of affection.It’s the only reason John is still in his life, and he knows it.Forgiveness he never deserved, but he swore over a year ago that he would do his utmost to make that up to him, and he’s tried, god help him.He’s tried, and he feels he’s doing better, being better, and if there is one thing he knows, it is this.He failed to protect Sherlock from her once.He isn’t going to fail him that way again.

He pulls back, brings the envelope up between them, and pulls out the DVD.Sherlock is trembling.It’s almost imperceptible, but John knows him so intimately by now, that he can see it, feel it in the air between them.

“John, if you want…If you need.”

“You or me?”John interrupts, and then makes a decision.“Both of us, I think.”

Sherlock just looks lost, and so John reaches down and takes his hand, leads him over to the wood stove, and opens the door.He holds up the disk for Sherlock to see.“Together, yeah?”

“It could be important.”Sherlock whispers.“You should let me give it to Mycroft.”

“Sod Mycroft.We’re burning it.Come on.”

“John, she might have something to say that you would want to hear, I really think.”

“There’s nothing she has to say that I want to hear anymore.I loved her once, and then I didn’t, and now she’s gone.I’ve healed.I’ve moved on, and she has to stop doing this—to both of us.”John moves the disk toward the flames.“Now come on.Together.”

Sherlock still looks lost, but he reaches down to place a hand around the case, his fingers brushing John’s, and John strokes Sherlock’s thumb with his pinky.“Okay then?”Sherlock nods, and John takes a deep breath.“Okay, thenOn three.One.Two.Three.”

They let go, and with a flick of his wrist John sends the disk into the flames, and seals the door shut before fumes from the plastic can escape into the lounge.Sherlock stands and stares at the flames leaping up behind the stove door,He’s completely quiet, blinking in that way he does when his brain is overwhelmed by an emotion so large he can’t process it.

John reaches down and takes his hand, waits for him, watches the cogs of his brain whir and click until a wrinkle forms between his brows and his eyes fill, and he seems to notice John standing in front of him, holding on.

“Gonna follow your rule right now,” John murmurs.

“Rule?”

“That I’m supposed to ask for what I want.”

He sees realisation dawn in Sherlock’s eyes, even as two tears spill over to track down his cheeks.“Oh.And what’s that.”

“Wanna take you to bed.”

Sherlock’s mouth presses shut, and he swallows tightly as two more tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes.

“That okay?”John checks.

Sherlock nods.

“Good.Then come on.”


	23. Day 23 - Christmas Crackers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 23 - Christmas Crackers**
> 
> **Author's Notes:** Please note that this chapter really earns it's explicit rating. See the added tags below. Also, if explicit stuff isn't your cup of tea, I think you can read just past the opening of the Christmas Crackers and still be safe. There's sort of an important happening in this chapter, you probably don't want to miss, and the first half of the chapter is SFW.
> 
>  **Additional Tags:** #anal fingering, #anal sex

When they get to the bedroom, John sets about staring a fire, and Sherlock just sits on the bed and watches him.They don’t say anything, and maybe that’s for the best.John doesn’t want to talk about it.Not yet at least.He’s still angry, angry at her, and he doesn’t want to do this angry, but he’s tired of letting her have her way, even if it’s simply the shadow of the ghost of her.

He gets up from the hearth, gathers up the lube and condoms from the top drawer of the bedside table, sets them on top, goes across to the loo and gets a flannel, comes back into the bedroom and gets the massage oil out of his bag, and then stands in the middle of the room, looking around for something, anything else he can put to rights, before—before…

“John.”

John sucks in a quick breath, lets it out again, and turns on his heel to look down at Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed.Sherlock holds out a hand, and John feels a sort of relief wash over him.He goes to sit beside him.

“We don’t have to do this now.”Sherlock squeezes his hand.

“Yeah, we do.”

“I’d rather not have the first time we do this it be because you want to prove something.It will happen when it happens.”

John shakes his head and stares down at his hand sheltered in Sherlock’s.“I’m not trying to prove something.”

“You want me to know you love me.I know that already.”

John looks up.“I know you do, but more than that I want you to know that it was always you.”John looks away, gazes absently around the room, before shaking his head, and turning back to Sherlock.“You weren’t ever my second choice, and I think—I _know_ , I made you feel that way—for a long time.”

Sherlock doesn’t contradict him, and it makes John hate himself, a little, for a moment.

“The past is past, John.”

“So you say, but…”

“No buts.”

“So you say, _but_ I saw how it affected you, just now, that video.”John turns a little toward him, and takes his other hand.“Look, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, and like me, are just trying your best to move past things, or whether you really don’t see how the things she did have marked you, I don’t know.That’s up to you to figure out, I just want you—need you to see that I see it, and I don’t ever want to put you in that kind of position again.I was supposed to protect you.I didn’t.”

“What makes you think I need protecting?”Sherlock sounds a tad indignant.John just lifts a brow, which causes Sherlock to frown, which makes John laugh, and breaks the ice a little.

“Protecting you, taking care of you, it makes me feel useful.It’s how we started.”

“You’re useful in more ways than that, John.And valued.And—cherished.”John has to look away; still not used to Sherlock occasionally being so forthcoming with his regard.“And I like caring for you, too,” Sherlock continues.“I know that’s more difficult for you, but you need it.”

“Oh, you know what I need now, do you?”John tries to keep the tone light, but he can feel the old irritation rising up.

“Most of the time.And you know I do.You know I’m right, and it makes you angry because I’ve broken your trust, and it’s not mended, and perhaps it can’t be.But I would be very grateful and honoured if you would let me try.The other day, what we shared, it was—a revelation.”

John isn’t sure he likes the way the conversation is going, the way it makes him itch with vulnerability and anger at being so exposed.Sherlock is usually more careful with him, but perhaps this is Sherlock more thrown by the video than he realises, desperate, stampeding through rather than treading on eggshells the way he usually does, and maybe that’s a good thing, necessary even, but…

“I don’t know.I don’t know any of that, I just know I’m angry right now, and I don’t want to be.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen for a brief moment, before narrowing again, studying him.If he’s shocked at John’s honesty, he doesn’t say.After a moment he sucks in a breath.“Shall we order a takeaway?”

John huffs at the sudden change in topic.“What?”

“I’m starving, and there’s a Thai restaurant in East Dean that delivers on weekends.Should we do a takeaway for lunch, do you think?”

John’s face stretches into a grin in spite of himself.This is Sherlock giving him space and time to settle.He’s grateful.He shakes his head fondly.“Yeah.Okay.”

“Good.”Sherlock pulls his hands from John’s, stroking the top of John’s thighs as he stands up.“Your usual?”

“Yeah.Not too spicy, though.”

Sherlock pulls out his phone.

“Sherlock…”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

And Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment, with that look that always takes John’s breath away, and then nods and smiles.“I love you.”

And John feels his heart twist hard with everything he feels, with the knowledge that they are going to make it, no matter how difficult the things they face, because they are finally, finally facing them together, together or not at all, and it feels like a commitment, like more commitment that he’s ever made to anyone in his life. 

_Things have been hard, are going to be hard, but I’m here, and I’m staying, and I want to walk through them with you_.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

They spread a blanket out on the bed, and all the food on that, and Sherlock laughs, actually laughs, at the tacky, festive way they’ve decorated the cardboard boxes the food’s come in, and the bows tied around the chopsticks, and the two Christmas crackers stuffed in the top of the bag with their order.

They chat about everything and nothing, about Mrs. Hudson, and Margaret, and Rosie coming that evening, about the little village, and it’s odd assortment of locals, and the likelihood of crimes being committed, and Sherlock goes on about the beehives for awhile, and John just listens, with a smile on his face, happy to see him so passionate about something that doesn’t involve death and dismemberment.

They talk about the future, the things they might do to improve their little place, and about Rosie’s schooling, and about the way that London has changed, the whole of the country has changed since Brexit, and how that may affect both of their careers in the future.

When they get halfway through the meal Sherlock sets down his pla choo chee, and stares around himself."We have wine, don't we?”

“Couple bottles for Christmas, but you know Mrs. Hudson, she’s likely to bring more.Want to crack open a bottle?”

“Yes.White?”

“Sounds good.”

Sherlock gets up and heads downstairs, and John grins like an idiot, and pokes absently at the detritus of their meal spread out on the bed before him, half empty food containers, and crumpled napkins, discarded ribbon, and the green and red foil Christmas crackers they have yet to open.

He picks the nearest one up, pulls a little at it and tries to peak inside to determine its contents.And then, suddenly remembers last Christmas—Sherlock helping Rosie open the cracker John had brought her home from work, the way the contents had spilled out over the floor, and how John had got down on his knees to pick it all up and how Sherlock had turned, looked down at him, and thought…

John’s eyes snap to his overnight bag.His ears strain for the sounds coming from downstairs—the opening of cabinets, the clinking of glasses.

He dives for his bag, pulls out the box he’s had stowed there for over a week, pulls out it’s contents and stuffs it hurriedly inside the cracker in his hand.

He’s sitting calmly, eating Pad Thai by the time Sherlock comes back upstairs with the wine, and hands him a glass.“Ta.”

“My pleasure.”

And only then does it hit him, what it is he’s just done, what it is he’s planning to do.He looks across at Sherlock, setting his wine glass down on the nightstand, curling his legs under him again, and tucking back into his crispy salmon.He looks at the relaxed lay of his shoulders, and the way one curl keeps escaping to bounce against his forehead.He looks at the crinkles at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, and the couple of grey hairs at Sherlock’s temples, that he never mentions, but which John keeps a running tally of, with each passing day, wondering , with regret, how many he contributed to, but relishing in them too, in way they seem to soften him, while making him look even more posh and distinguished, somehow.

Sherlock looks up and must see it all in his eyes, the fondness, the love, the sheer, overwhelming gratitude that they’re here together, and that Sherlock wants this, wants them like this, here in this place, even when they’re old and grey, grumpy and doddering. 

John gets up, makes an excuse to use the loo, goes into the bathroom and stares at his reflection in the mirror for a moment.He’s put weight back on the last year, he’s got some of his colour back.Everyone notices.Even Ella had mentioned it a few months back when he’d been to see her.He’s better.He’s better when they’re together.He’s always been.

He nods once, flushes the toilet and turns on the water in the sink, just so Sherlock will think he’s actually been doing what one does in the loo, and not standing in front of the mirror like a prat, psyching himself up for what comes next.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Sherlock is standing beside the bed stacking together some of the empty food containers.Luckily, the illustrious cracker remains exactly where John had left it.He walks over and picks it up.“Here help me do the honours, yeah?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.“Weren’t we supposed to do that at the beginning of the meal so I would have to suffer through its entirety wearing a one of those ridiculous paper crowns?”

John laughs and hopes he doesn’t sound anxious.“Better late than never.”

Sherlock strides forward and takes one end of the cracker.

“Mind you pull hard.”John gives him a wink, and delights at the colour it brings to Sherlock’s cheeks, is satisfied with the loud pop, and the way the contents tumble to the floor ( _because really, what were the chances?!_ ).He sees the glint of silver on the carpet, amongst the rest of the trinkets, gets down on the pretence of gathering it all up, and then picks up the ring, gets up on one knee, and realises that Sherlock’s already turned away and gone back to gathering up their food.

He rolls his eyes. At least it will be a surprise…

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Can you look at me for a minute.”

Sherlock turns around and then stops dead, stares down at John on one knee with the simple platinum band in his palm, and blinks.Blinks, and blinks, and blinks. 

John grins.“Told you when we did crackers last year, that I’d hold onto that ring, might come in handy.Well, not the same ring, obviously, but if you can bring yourself to accept platinum over plastic…”

Sherlock just stares, and John feels a small flutter of panic in his chest.He should have planned a little speech or something, but it’s not their way, has never been their way, and…

“Bought this a couple weeks ago.Was planning on giving it to you Christmas morning, but then there were the crackers, and I remembered last Christmas, and figured now was the time.

“This cottage, it was your way of saying forever, yeah?Well this is mine.I want us to be together, Sherlock.I’ve wanted it from the start.I just—like an idiot I thought I needed time.I didn’t.I’ve had time enough, more than enough, so…I thought maybe we could make it official.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, takes a breath, and then closes it again with a dry swallow.

John closes his hand around the ring, drops his it and stares down at the floor.“Getting a little uncomfortable down here.”

“Yes.”Sherlock finally mutters.“Yes.Sorry.”

He strides forward, and helps John to his feet, stares down at him, and then takes his face in his hands and kisses him.It’s soft, and deep, and tender, and John melts with relief until he hears the ping of metal hitting hardwood, and pulls back.

“Shit, the ring.”

Sherlock looks frantically around the floor at their feet.“Where did it go?”

“Don’t know.I think it rolled.”

Sherlock drops to his knees, and looks under the bed, John leans down to look under the dresser.

“Where is it?!”Sherlock sounds quite frantic now.“John, where is it?!!”

And for the first time John sees just how much it’s meant to Sherlock, how very much he’s wanted it whether he’d been willing or able to admit to it, or not, and it breaks his heart.He should have done it sooner.He should have done it the day after Sherlock came back from the dead in a flurry of ill-timed theatrics. 

John gets down on the floor beside him, and rests a hand on his back. 

“It’s okay.We’ll find it.My fault for dropping it.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.You always go to jelly.”

John huffs, and then laughs, and Sherlock glances over at him, and then chuckles softly himself, some of the panic dissipating.John leans down and stares under the bedside table, and sees a glint of silver nestled amongst the dust bunnies.

“Here it is!”

He pulls it out, dusts it off against his trouser leg, and holds it up for Sherlock to see.“See, all safe and sound.Hope it fits.I had to guess.”

Sherlock takes it from him, and stares down at it, turning it about between his fingers.There’s nothing to see, really.It’s a simple platinum band, with an embarrassingly small, square-cut diamond embedded flush, in the centre.It was all John could afford, more than he could afford, probably, but he’d taken his time selecting it, and he’s anxious to see it on him, now it comes down to it.

He nods toward Sherlock’s hand.“Put it on.Want to see if it fits.”

And to his surprise Sherlock hands the ring to him, and then holds out his hand, wanting John to do the honours, and John is reminded again of how very big an idiot he’s been to wait so long to do this.

It takes a little doing to get the ring over Sherlock’s knuckle, but once he does, it fits perfectly, and he’s rather pleased with his own deductive skills at guessing the size.“Looks nice.”

When he looks up, Sherlock is still staring down at his hand.He sits back on his heels.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nods, but two tears drip down onto his hand.

“Hey…”John slides a little closer, and places a hand on his knee.

“I would have kept you forever, right from the start, John.If Moriarty hadn’t…”

And John doesn’t know what to say, so he just rubs a thumb over Sherlock’s knee.

“I should never have left.”He continues.“I should have found another way, and…”

John squeezes.“Forever can start now.Started last year, really, or maybe started that very first day at Bart’s lab, whether either of us knew it, or could admit it, or knew how to make that a thing that could last.There are no guarantees, yeah?But you can consider this a promise and vow that we do it together from now on.”

Sherlock nods.“Yes.”

“I love you,” John whispers.

Sherlock looks up, eyes full and brow knit.“Why?”

John is stunned. _Does he not know?The world’s greatest detective, brilliant, clever, bloody genius, and he really doesn’t know?_

“‘Cause you’re you.‘Cause I knew the day we met that something had just happened that was going to change my life forever, and it did, you did, you still are, and I’m better when I’m loving you.”

Sherlock huffs, another tear spilling over to cling to his bottom lashes, just as he looks back down at the ring on his finger.

“Come here.”John struggles to his feet and reaches out a hand.“Come here.”

And Sherlock lets himself be gathered up from the floor, lets John fold up the blanket with the rest of their picnic, and toss it on the floor, before pulling Sherlock down onto the bed and into his arms.He cards a hand through Sherlock’s hair, and presses his lips to his forehead, feels Sherlock relax against him, his arms sneaking up to slink under and drape over John’s waist, to pull him close.

“Will it be Watson-Holmes, or Holmes-Watson, do you think?”He smiles into Sherlock’s hair.

“Don’t be ridiculous John.”

And John chuckles.Rubs the fabric of Sherlock’s jumper ( _his jumper_ ) between his fingers.“You just keeping this jumper of mine?”

“Of course not. It's hideous.”

“Mmm… Seems to have migrated permanently into your circulation, though, hasn't it.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John shivers a little as he nuzzles the neck of John’s shirt aside with his nose, like a demanding cat, and presses his lips just below John’s suprasternal notch.There’s a kiss, and then another, and then a long, slow slide of tongue.John’s breath catches.

John glides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair again, makes a fist and tugs, slow and firm, and Sherlock gasps, and then moans, and John feels all the blood rush from his cheeks straight to his cock.

Sherlock sighs when John lets go and rubs the pads of his fingers against his scalp.“Really think I’m going to be taking my jumper back now.You’re stretching it all out.”John fumbles for the hem and starts to pull it off, but Sherlock swats his hands out of the way, tears it off himself, and then goes for John’s.And John lets himself be stripped bare, grateful for the fire he’d built earlier, and which is still burning brightly in the hearth, as Sherlock sits up, cheeks pink and hair wild, and starts to divest him of his trousers as well.

He’s already subtly rocking his hips, his arse grinding down against the base of John’s cock, making him thirsty with want.

“Eager, are we?”John huffs. 

“Shh.”Sherlock orders, and John grins, and then lets out a breathy _uhh_ of relief when Sherlock yanks his trousers down, and frees his cock to the cool air.

Sherlock stares down at him for a moment, mouth lax, pupils blown wide, and then dips down, slides down, suddenly, and takes John into his mouth, tip to root, with a long, delicious moan,

John slams his head back against the pillow, with a grunt, and wonders how on earth he got so fucking lucky.“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Mmm…” 

“You—you’re gonna make me come, and we just…”

Sherlock pulls off and rolls out of bed.

“Hey…”John whines.But then he’s back again, lube and condoms in hand, and John grins, and then giggles.“Give it here, then.But you need prep.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yeah you do.”

“ _John!_ ”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Boring.”Sherlock pouts.

“Not boring.Promise.Come here.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and John suspects he’s being played, but Sherlock looks so fucking unencumbered, so joyful, so eager, he can’t bring himself to care.

“And get naked.And bring the lube,” he adds.

Sherlock grins, and John laughs.“You brat.You can just ask, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Though that was your rule?”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock’s managed to fully get his kit off and is crawling back in bed.He tosses the lube on John’s chest.“There.Now prep me.”

John’s eyebrows retreat all the way up to his hairline.“Christ you’re demanding.So much for romance.” 

“Plenty of time for romance, John.A lifetime for romance.Right now I want you to fuck me.”

John just shakes his head.“Right. Okay.Well can’t do that with you sitting over there, so come here, then.”

Sherlock sighs, crawls over, turns around, folds himself in half and shoves his arse in John’s face.John laughs.“Jesus.I get it.You want it.Just…” 

It is a gorgeous arse.John reaches over and runs a finger down the crease, not quite pressing between the gluteals, more of a slow, delicate tease.He watches the gooseflesh erupt over Sherlock’s skin.

He rolls over, props himself on one elbow, and presses his lips to one cheek, and hears Sherlock’s breath catch.“Sto—Stop stalling.”

“Not stalling.Just getting started.”And suddenly it becomes clear.Sherlock wants this, that’s clear, maybe wants it more than he understands, and yet there is a vulnerability in that, all that wanting, and this little act, the demanding brat, wanting it all, wanting it now…That makes it easier.Less chance to feel vulnerable.

_Ahhh…So Sherlock is as nervous as he is._

John sits up, runs a hand up the length of Sherlock’s curved spine, moves behind him, drapes his naked body over Sherlock’s, and kisses the top of his spine.His cock slots perfectly in the crease of Sherlock’s arse, and he feels Sherlock shiver beneath him.But when, after a moment, he stays still, Sherlock’s head drops.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you trust me?”John murmurs against his skin.A terrifying question.There is no reason Sherlock should.

“John, I…”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Alright, then…”John presses another kiss to his spine, and another, moves his body a little, let’s Sherlock get used the feel of their bodies close in this way, gives himself time to relax, to feel all the little tells in Sherlock’s body, the way his thighs tremble, even though he’s not putting any strain on them, the way he’s tense all over, clearly prickling with desire, but underneath it all, something else less pleasurable.

John pulls back and rubs his palms over Sherlock’s back.“Under the covers, come on.”

“John!”

“Under the covers.”

Sherlock unfurls, rather more dramatically than necessary, and gets under the covers.John does the same, and then slides back and pulls him into his arms, spooning behind him, arm wrapped around, stroking Sherlock’s chest.“Can we please take this slow.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh.

John reaches up and pats his hip.“Hand me the lube, okay.”

Sherlock’s hand appears over his back in record time.John takes the bottle from him, and dispenses a little, reaches around and takes Sherlock’s cock in hand.He’s only half hard, and John lets the weight of him rest in his palm, stroking his length with one thumb, while pressing kisses to his shoulder blades.

“I love you.”Sherlock’s cock twitches with interest in his hand.“I love you,” he murmurs again, and feels him grow a little harder.

He gives his cock a tentative pull.“Christ, I love you.”And he feels Sherlock plump further against his palm.

Sherlock isn’t saying anything, but he’s pressing back against John’s body, now, and his hips rock forward as John’s hand closes around him, and starts in with a rhythm of slow, firm pulls.

“Loved you from the minute I laid eyes on you.”

Sherlock’s breath catches, and he thrusts into John’s hand.

“Walked into that lab, saw you standing there, thought—bloody gorgeous, brilliant.Wonder if a bloke like that could ever…”He rocks himself against Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock moans.“Could ever love someone like me.”

“Of course I did…Do.”It’s barely a whisper.

“Say it.”John presses his cock between Sherlock’s cheeks, it’s uncomfortably dry, and he needs to get a condom on and lube, but…He thrusts experimentally.

“I love you,”Sherlock moans, and now it’s John’s turn to feel those words echo through his veins.Condom sooner rather than later, then, just to be safe.

He pulls back and fumbles about on the top of the sheets until his finds the condom, tears it open, and rolls it on.It’s clear Sherlock knows what he’s doing.He’s managed to get ahold of the lube, has slicked his own hand, and taken over the rhythm John had abandoned.John reaches over his waist, finds the lube and slicks his cock, and hand, before pulling Sherlock back against him, and letting his cock slide deep in his cleft.

“God, John…”Sherlock presses back against him, and wiggles his arse in an aborted attempt to get John deeper.“I—I want…”

John knows what he wants.He reaches down between their bodies, sighing as his hand grazes the side of his own cock, and then slips deep until he finds the tight, pulsing entrance to Sherlock’s body, and circles it slowly with the pad of his finger.

Sherlock lets out a whimper, his hand speeding up as he pulls at his own cock.“Careful,” John whispers.“Don’t want to come too soon.”

“John, please.”

And John smiles against his shoulder, and presses, waits, and feels his own cock twitch when Sherlock takes him in with a small _uhh_ of surprise.He presses back, but John eases away.“Give it a minute.Let your body do the work.”

Sherlock is panting, still wanking slow and steady, but trembling, and starting to sweat.“I want it.”

“Know you do, Idiot.Just give it a…”And Sherlock’s body pulls him deeper still.

“Move.”Sherlock demands.

“Shhh…”John kisses Sherlock’s back, and tastes the salt of sweat.He wishes they were in a different position, that he was an at angle where he could easily tease at Sherlock’s prostate.He might be able to hit it with a knuckle if he curves his finger the right way, but it’s not his usual angle of approach. 

It doesn’t seem to matter now, though, because Sherlock has started to thrust back against his finger, taking what he wants, and John pulls out, chuckling at Sherlock’s whinge of irritation, and then slicks his finger with more lube and pushes back in.This time, Sherlock takes him easily, and John starts to slide in and out of him in rhythm with Sherlock’s wanking.

It’s heady, the feeling of being inside of him, of Sherlock’s body pulsing around him, hungrily trying to pull him deeper, John wonders if he might not take a second finger.John’s fingers are small, and his cock thick, and it’s going to take a lot more prep than this for Sherlock to be comfortable.

When he pulls back this time, he presses a second finger to Sherlock’s rim.Sherlock hisses, and then thrusts back hard, grunting in surprise when John’s second finger pops inside.He groans long and loud, and John is bloody grateful they decided to do this now, rather than waiting until Mrs. Hudson and the rest were here.Those are not knowing looks he would want to have to endure over the breakfast table.

Sherlock’s always been a bit loud, but he’s been exceptionally vocal since they’ve got to the cottage, and John is swiftly learning that it drives him wild.He’s aching now, and burning need is starting to overtake reserve.Sherlock’s already taken his second finger all the way in, and is pushing himself back against John’s fingers, and his throbbing cock, like he’s desperate.

Suddenly Sherlock shifts his weight, flipping them both, dislodging John’s fingers, and leaving him blink up in surprise.Sherlock is looking down at him, flushed and panting, curls clinging to his damp forehead.“Now, John!”He pants.

“You’re not rea…”But Sherlock is already taking John’s cock in hand, slicking it, and lowering himself slowly down.“Christ, go easy.Go easy.”

Sherlock’s thighs are shaking with exertion, and John can feel the way his body is resisting. John grins.“Told you.”

“Shut up, John!”Sherlock lowers himself a little more.

“Yeah, well don’t—break me.”

Sherlock looks down at him in an attempt to look scandalised, but only manages in coming off slightly drunk.“ _John…_ ”And there’s a desperate, hungry tone to it, that tweaks John’s sympathies.

“You’re almost there, but once I’m inside, give it a bit, yeah?You’re so bloody impatient.”John reaches up and gently swats Sherlock’s hand away from his cock, picks up the rhythm so Sherlock can have another hand to support himself.It seems to help, and after what seems like an eternity, the head of John’s cock finally pushes inside. 

It’s hot and tight, and John moans in spite of himself, feels Sherlock plump in his hand as his mouth and eyes go wide.“There you are,” John encourages.“There you go.Slowly now.Oh god…”

Sherlock sits.He just sits all the way down, hisses loud once he’s settled, and then goes very still. 

John goes still too, because he wasn’t expecting it, the way it would feel having Sherlock wrapped around him this way, but also the way it would _feel_ having Sherlock wrapped around him this way.He breathes through it, tries to fight the lump in his throat, and the bite at the corner of his eyes, and gives up after a while, because if he can’t be this way with Sherlock in this moment, then what’s the bloody point of any of it.

Sherlock just sits, and stares down at the centre of John’s chest, panting slowly, so still, so still, and John reaches out and lays a hand on his thigh.“You okay?”He can hear the emotion in his voice, and Sherlock must hear it too, because he looks up, eyes as full and red-rimmed as John’s, and nods.

“Whenever you’re ready,” John assures him.

Sherlock’s eyes never leave his, as he reaches down, and cups his hand around John’s, where it’s still lightly cradling Sherlock’s cock, and John understands, so he starts to stroke again, watches Sherlock’s eyes fall shut, and his mouth fall open, watches the tears squeeze from beneath closed lids to trail down his cheeks.

“I love you,” John murmurs wetly.“I love you.”

Sherlock pulses in his hand, and squeezes around him, and lets out a whimper, and it’s so much at once, that John’s whines a little himself, and rocks his hips upward without thinking, which causes Sherlock to grunt in surprise, and then moan.

“You okay.You okay.” 

Sherlock just nods.“Again.Again, John.”

John picks up the pace of his strokes a little, and then rocks his hips up again.Sherlock’s eyes glaze over, heavy lidded.“I love you,” John says again, and listens to Sherlock moan, and feels him clench around him, and realises it’s a thing, a thing with him, and leave it to Sherlock to be so fucking turned on by those three words. 

John wants to kiss him, but he’s afraid if he asks Sherlock to lean down, the angle will become impossible, so instead he just strokes him faster, starts to rock his hips in a rhythm, and hopes he knows, hopes he feels it, feels that John means it: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

He can feel it building in Sherlock’s body, the way his breathing has gone quick and shallow, his nipples peaked, his cock grown thick and rock hard against John’s palm, every I love you, drawing him closer and closer to the edge.“That’s it.So close.Come on.You don’t have to wait for me.”

“John.”Sherlock swallows, cheeks flushed and wet, beads of sweat running down his forehead, chest flushed red.“John, please.”

“It’s okay. You can come.”

“John, please.”And John realises that Sherlock wants him to come too, and it would be so easy, if he weren’t being so careful.

“Don’t want to hurt you.I’m okay.”

“John!”

And John presses his head back against the pillow, screws his eyes shut, and shakes his head.“Fuck.”He lets go of Sherlock’s cock, and grabs onto his hips, and starts to drive up into him hard, with nothing but a mind to chase his own pleasure.

Sherlock shouts and then moans, and moans, and pants, and whines.He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock taking up where he left off, taking himself in hand, and starting to wank furiously as John drives himself closer, and closer to the edge.

He looks up at Sherlock’s head thrown back, face screwed into an expression half pain, half transcendent pleasure, and he smiles, and moans.“I love you.Christ, god, I love you so much.”

That’s all it takes.Sherlock’s head snaps down, and he watches, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he comes, and comes all over John’s chest, his body squeezing so tight around John’s cock that it’s almost uncomfortable, and John grips his hips even harder, and thrusts twice more, before coming so hard he goes dizzy.“Oh fuck.Oh Christ, Sherlock.Sherlock!God.”

Sherlock collapses on top of him, John sliding from his body, to lay, limp and spent against his thigh.And Sherlock is crying, John realises, still crying, and so he wraps his arms around him, and kisses his hair, and lets Sherlock’s hands weakly explore him, every inch, seeking him out, touching, touching, and John doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t matter.He loves him, and he would give him anything, anything at all.

Finally Sherlock stills, and John thinks he should clean up, remove the condom, wipe them both down, but Sherlock is clinging to him, like he’s afraid he’ll disappear, and so he lies with him awhile longer, strokes his hair, and waits for their hearts to slow.

“Would you be willing to do that again, sometime, do you think?”Sherlock finally says out of the blue. 

And John laughs, and pulls him closer, kissing the top of his head with a huff.“Pretty sure that could be arranged, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are curious about the ring John got Sherlock, [THIS IS IT](https://www.tiffany.co.uk/engagement/mens-wedding-bands/tiffany-classic-wedding-band-ring-GRP00260?fromGrid=1&origin=browse&trackpdp=bg&fromcid=288177&trackgridpos=6)


	24. Day 24 - That Mariah Carey Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 24 - That Mariah Carey Song**

“Daddy…”

“Mphh…”

“Daddy.Dark.”

John cracks one eye open.It takes him a minute to get his bearings.Their cottage.Sherlock curled up behind him.Mrs. Hudson and Margaret asleep in the guest room across the hall, and Rosie—Rosie’s _supposed_ to be asleep in the room next to it.

This first foray into a ‘big girl bed’ was a long shot, but they hadn’t had much choice due to the fact that she’d grown too big for the travel cot.

“Dark.”

“Mm, that’s ‘cause it’s the middle of the night, Bug.You want to get in here with me?”

“Yeah.”

John stretches, and then sits up and pulls her up into the bed.They try not to do this, but it’s a strange house, and she’s got an adventurous streak.Better she be with him, than trying to get downstairs or outside.

Sherlock stirs behind him, and starts to subconsciously seek out his warmth.

“Got Ro in the bed.”John warns.

“Mmm…”He feels Sherlock pout sleepily against his neck, and smiles.

Rosie curls up next to him, and pulls at the fabric of his T-Shirt.“Santa comes?”

“Not today.”

“Soon?”

“Yeah, soon.Try to go back to sleep, okay.”

She seems to drift, and John is almost back to sleep, when she rubs her face over the front of his t-shirt, and pokes him in the chest.“You stay?”

“Mmm?”

“You stay, now.”

John opens his eyes and stares down at her in the dark.He’s hardly been there for her at all, from the very moment she was born she’s been raised by a village, and he’s bloody grateful for the support, but sometimes he wonders if she even knows him.

“Yeah.You’ll stay here with me and Sherlock, and then after Christmas is over we’ll go back home to London.”

“Okay.”

“You like this house?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Well, it’s kind of hard to say when you’ve only just got here, yeah, but I think you will, and Sherlock’s bought it for us as a Christmas present, so we can come here whenever we like.There’s a nice garden for you to play in, and we’re close to the sea, so maybe we can go see the water today, or tomorrow.Would you like that, seeing the sea?”

She giggles, and cuddles closer.“See the sea.”

“Yeah.”

“See the sea!”She declares.

Sherlock moans.“Indeed, but perhaps when the sun comes up.”

“Sorry,” John murmurs over his shoulder, but Rosie is already crawling over him to see Sherlock.

“Good morning, Watson.Though, I’m not entirely sure it is morning.”

“See the sea!”

“Yes.After breakfast, perhaps.”

John rolls onto his back, and stares over at Rosie, rooting about in Sherlock’s hair.Fascination with his curls seems to be an inherent Watson trait.Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, but he’s clearly awake now, and is humouring her with is usual patience, which still astounds John, even after all this time.

“Any lice?Fleas?Bumble bees?”Sherlock mumbles, and Rosie laughs.She’d found a ladybug in his hair once, and ever since then it’s been a little inside joke with them.

John reaches over for his phone, and looks down at the time.“Christ.It’s only five.”

“Ready for adventures are you?”Sherlock asks Rosie, but she’s too busy digging in his hair to pay him any mind.“I suppose we might as well get up.”Sherlock sighs. 

“Sure.Do you want me to make some coffee.”

“You are a saint amongst men.”

John smiles and get out of bed, fumbles about in the dark for his dressing gown and then goes downstairs to start the day.

The fire in the stove is lit, and the whole kitchen and lounge smell like freshly brewed coffee by the time Sherlock comes downstairs with Rosie.They are having some long discussion John can’t even hope to keep up with.Sherlock has always had a way with her that John hasn’t.At the moment it appears he’s instructing her on stove safety, ensuring she doesn’t put her hands on it and burn herself.

They seem to have very real, adult conversations, Rosie with her halting, toddler speech, and Sherlock with his usual, rapid fire verbosity.Rosie’s off investigating the pile of wrapped presents in the corner, now, and John comes up behind Sherlock and rests his chin on his shoulder, handing him a cup of coffee as they watch and ensure Rosie doesn’t decide to dig into the gifts early.

“How you feeling?”

“Mmm?”Sherlock takes the mug, takes a sip, and then breathes deep through his nose in appreciation.

“Sore?”

Sherlock tilts his chin towards John, and smiles.“A little.It will pass.”

“Didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

“I know.But, I’m glad you did.Heaven knows when we’ll get the opportunity again.”

John looks over at Rosie pressing her ear to one particularly large box and thinks about the fact that her cot-sleeping days are probably over.“True.”

Sherlock tilts his head so it’s leaning against John’s.“Did you want to go to the shore when it gets light?I imagine it’s quite wild.Perfect seaside weather in my opinion.”

John chuckles.“It would be.But yeah.Let’s.”He nods toward Rosie.“This one’s never seen the sea.”

Mrs. Hudson and Margaret get up two hours later, make tea, and toast with marmalade, and soft-boiled eggs, and chatter away happily about this and that, getting caught up on all the happenings.Margaret is an elegant, adventurous woman, who showed up in her Range Rover with Rosie’s child seat strapped in the back, her cello stowed behind, and Mrs. Hudson sitting in the front seat beside her, looking ten years younger, with a glow to her cheeks and a spring to her step.

No one has mentioned the ring on Sherlock’s finger yet, even though he’s been swanning about practically sticking it under Mrs. Hudson’s nose in the hope she’ll notice.It’s only a matter of time before he outright announces it, John figures, and he smiles at the thought.If anyone will be over the moon as much as they are, it will be Mrs. Hudson. 

* * *

The announcement finally comes at the beach, with them standing in the wild, winter wind, the sun glinting off cresting wave-caps of foam, and Rosie digging about in the tide pools.Mrs. Hudson cries, and hugs them both, and John can tell that Sherlock is properly satisfied with the level of sentiment expressed, even if he pretends the whole lot of them are ridiculous.

Afterwards Margaret and Mrs. Hudson walk on ahead, along the shore, hand-in-hand, and John feels a twinge of sentiment of his own as he watches Mrs. Hudson lean her head on Margaret’s shoulder, and Margaret throw her head back and laugh at something she’s said.He wonders what the future might hold, if she will stay at Baker Street, or if the two of them will find a little Sussex Cottage of their own.It’s hard for him to imagine Mrs. Hudson anywhere but in the hustle and bustle of London, but here he is, after all—quiet, content, feeling the full warmth of the sun on his face for the first time in what feels like years.

Sherlock presses up against his side seeking out his fingers as the folds of his coat enfold them.“Good riddance to Chatterjee it seems.”

John chuckles.“So it seems.What do you think it was that did it, all those wives in far flung locales?”

“No.I imagine she just got tired of wondering ‘what if?’”

“Right.”

“A risk taken, and a happy outcome.”

“So it seems.”John watches Margaret wrap an arm around Mrs. Hudson’s waist, and then turns his attention back to Rosie.“She’s going to be a mess when we get home.”

“An exhausted mess.She’ll fall asleep early, and all the better for us.”Sherlock winks down at him, and John feels his cheeks pink with more than the cold.

“Don’t forget we have two old ladies across the hall from us.”

“Who will no doubt be distracted with activities of their own.”

“Good Christ, that is not an image I needed!”

Sherlock chuckles, and then sobers.“Yes well, doesn’t do to judge.Soon we’ll be the old ones.”

“Well let’s not get old before our time, though, yeah?I have a couple of wasted decades I want to make up for with you.” 

“Still,”Sherlock looks down at him, curls wild, eyes aglow with fondness.“I consider it a privilege to grow old with you, John.It was one I never thought to have.”

And John loves him so much in this moment, with the cold salt hair whipping his curls back from his face, and his cheeks pink, and his gloved hands holding fast to his, that he reaches up and pulls him down, and kisses him deep and full in the wide open air, beneath the clear blue sky, with other locals and a few brave tourists starting to brave the cold with children and pets of their own.And when he pulls back, Sherlock’s eyes are full, and so are his, and he knows, because he knows, that for the first time in his life, he’s starting his life.He’s doing it proper.He’s living it true.

“Daddy, star!”

Rosie is trotting across the sand toward them, red bucket in hand, and what looks like a squirming starfish held aloft in one hand.

“It lives in the water, Ro.Go put it back.”

Sherlock dashes across the sand, scoops Rosie up as she lets out a squeal, and then carries on back to the tide pool.John watches him place the star back in the water, pointing out things as he does, no doubt explaining to her why the creature needs to stay there. 

He smiles.

* * *

When they get back to the house, there is a light supper of soup and sandwiches, and a Christmas film for Rosie, with her own small bowl of popcorn, and drinks and board games for all the adults, and as the night wears on, and the libations continue to flow there is some of Mrs. Hudson’s nonsense, turning on a mix of Christmas tunes, and dancing around the lounge with Rosie.

“Oh, I love this one!”She declares as “All I want for Christmas is You” starts up.Sherlock is just entering the lounge from the kitchen, and she swings Rosie up into his arms, and then reaches out for Margaret’s hand and pulls her into a dance.

Sherlock just stands blinking at the madness, while Rosie squeals to be let down and get back in the fun, and John decides to take pity on him, sidles up beside him, taking Rosie’s hand in his, and starts to sing along with the lyrics.

She quiets, and then giggles, and Sherlock sighs, and rolls his eyes, but John can see the colour in his cheeks as he meets his eyes during the chorus, and he knows well enough that he’s pleased.


	25. Day 25 - Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Day 25 - Christmas Day**
> 
> **Author's Note:** The prompt was Christmas Morning, but I cheated a bit, and covered the whole of Christmas Day. Thanks to everyone who has followed along on this journey with us again this year. We so appreciate you reading, and I hope that all of you have had a very blessed and joyful holiday season.

In the early morning, while all the house is still sleeping, there is the soft, sweet, fumbling beneath the sheets that has been their way from the beginning, and which is so familiar now it’s both a comfort and a balm.Sherlock letting John know he is valued, cherished, beautiful.John letting Sherlock know that he is there, a rock and a harbour against all the business and social obligations the day ahead will hold.

They are both lazy and still drunk on their love when they finally slip from bed, and start the day.Rosie is up soon after, and then Mrs. Hudson and Margaret who seem to have a penchant for lying in.

There is the exchange of gifts, and Mrs. Hudson’s special egg nog, and her Christmas Carol film on constant loop while they eat their breakfast and Sherlock helps Rosie with her new Duplo Farm Adventures kit and John smiles through it all, wondering how on earth he got so lucky, and then realising that he’s been thinking that exact thing, non stop the whole holiday through, and how he might just need to stop asking, and accept it for what it is, because what it is is a miracle of a kind, and he is infinitely grateful.

The catered dinner Sherlock had ordered from Seaford shows up lukewarm, and so they end up having to do a bit of cooking anyway, but it doesn’t matter, John thinks, because he loves Sherlock’s arms around his waist as he stares down at John warming gravy on the cooker, and pouts against his cheek, and he loves the way Sherlock melts and lets it go when John turns his head to give him a small peck on the cheek, and dinner turns out to be fairly delicious anyway, so all’s well that ends well.

Rosie falls asleep early, in the middle of the lounge carpet surrounded by her duplo, and her new books, and the plush tiger that Mrs. Hudson gave her, and once John carries her up to bed, and tucks her in, there are Christmas drinks in the lounge, and Mrs. Hudson and Margaret sharing the story of how they met, and the long, winding history of their friendship, and there is Sherlock and John sharing their own story, and then all of them pouring over the house’s history, and the letters, and paintings, and photos William and James had left behind.

And when the ladies excuse themselves off upstairs for the night, John goes into the kitchen to do the dishes in the dim hush of the house, the sound of soft rain falling outside, as it washes away all their Christmas snow, and he smiles when Sherlock comes up behind him, a little drunk, a little soppy, hands everywhere, and begs John to forget the dishes and come to bed.

And so John does, and chuckles a little when Sherlock catches him by the belt and pulls him back into the doorway of the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson had predictably hung a sprig of mistletoe the day before.

“Hmm, there something you want?Thought we were off to bed.”

Sherlock weaves a little bit, and John reaches out and rests his hands on his waist to steady him.“There’s misthletoe,” Sherlock slurs.

“See that.”

“Think that means you should kissss me.”

“That so, husband?”

Sherlock blinks.

And John suddenly fears he may have overstepped, because Sherlock wants this, wants them, but they’ve not talked about the when of it, or what they will call one another and… 

“Yes.”Sherlock looks down at the ring on his finger.“Yes.”And he kisses John like it’s the first and last time, until John is breathless, and dizzy, and feels like he is the one who had maybe indulged a little too much.And when Sherlock pulls away, he gazes down at him, and strokes a hand up the length of John’s spine, and down again, and then pulls him close.

“Marry me when we get home.There will be the 28 day wait, of course, but after that.”

John pulls back and smiles up at him.“Could do it on the anniversary of the day we met.”

“Then, I need to get you a ring.”Sherlock declares quite seriously.

“Would be nice.”

“On the 29th of January then.”

“It’s been almost a decade.We took our time, didn’t we.”

“Better late than never, John.”

And John thinks, yes.Better late than never.Better forever than getting it wrong.Better to be here together, now, after everything—friends, partners, two men in love spending the rest of their days together, come what may, just as they’d always meant to.


End file.
